


Hope in Ruin

by Elizabeth1985



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Dean, Cas and Dean switch, DCBB, Dean and Feelings, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge, Destiel - Freeform, Drunk Sex, Evil people - Freeform, F/M, Fanart, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Heterosexual Sex, Leader Sam, Light Dom/Sub Scene, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Novel, OC deaths, Original Character(s), Post-Apocalypse, Slow Build, Top Castiel, Violence, Zombies, cannibalism (not mc's)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 01:40:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 121,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5073025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth1985/pseuds/Elizabeth1985
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took them by surprise when the infection hit.</p><p>Dean had always expected the world to fall apart through a clashing of biblical forces, not from a half-dozen scientists with a serious God complex.</p><p>In the devastated remains of civilization, Dean, Sam, Castiel, and two fellow survivors travel across the country searching for others. Living in a wasteland is hard enough, having to face a plethora of new threats doesn’t make it any easier.</p><p>But for Dean and Castiel, the most difficult journey will be finding something together that can withstand it all. In a world so damaged, finding hope amongst the ruin will be their greatest challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was such a long process but I am so happy to be done and I couldn't have done it without the following beta's and motivators: [Tennyo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tennyo/pseuds/Tennyo)  
> [GlassClosetCastiel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyBrennan/pseuds/GlassClosetCastiel)  
> [ProfoundBondofLove](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfoundBondOfLove/pseuds/ProfoundBondOfLove)  
> And also, basically my entire GISHWHES team!!
> 
> I would love to thank my incredible artist who did so much for this story and I can't stress enough how lucky I was to get you! [Kuwlshadow](http://dragonflyshell.deviantart.com/gallery/56527211/Hope-in-Ruin-Illustrations)  
> 

 

 

 

 

Fall, 2015

 _In the end, it wasn’t the demons, or the angels, or even some new breed of monster._ _It was us._

_Stupid, hairless apes—as Uriel had called us—caused the destruction of our own damn planet. And no, it wasn’t nuclear war that did us in but a goddamn infection._

_Damn annoying is what it is. No bad guy to go after ... no spell to perform._

_The whole friggin’ world brought down from an attempt to do good. Fucking figures! Someone should’ve told those lab coat wearing morons that playing God would only fuck things up._

_It’s been over two years since shit hit the fan. The population remaining on earth is a big fat question mark. But if I had to guess, I’d say no more than a million or so. The infected are everywhere. And they’re nasty motherfuckers with a smell that could knock a man over. At first glance, you’d think they were dead, but nope._

_Worst are the Raiders. Bands of “survivalists” that take Darwin’s words to the extreme. Those are the bastards that I enjoy putting down. Those fuckers deserve to live even less than the rage-infected drones tromping over the earth spreading their gangrenous disease. Goddamn selfish—_

_Like I said ... it’s been about two years._

_Why I started writing it all down I have no damn clue. Boredom maybe? My brother, Sammy, seems to think it would be good to keep a record of things. So that one day when we’re nothing but ashes, some asshole will stumble upon this craptacular journal written in even more craptacular handwriting and wonder what happened to the bastard who wrote it. Well, reader, I can tell you I died a fucking awesome death. Probably wielding a machete or something. So don’t worry your newly-born Neanderthal brain about me._

_I have this friend, Cas, he thinks we might make it. That we’ll end up living some decent life in the end. Maybe even make it to old age. He’s chipper that way. Weird guy actually. But truth be told—and I’ll kill you if you tell him—I don’t want it. Never did. The life I’ve led has left me with too many fucked up memories—nothing I would want creeping back through the haze and delirium of dementia or fucking Alzheimer’s._

_And let’s be real for a minute, no man wants to glance down and see his sac dangling towards his busted kneecaps._

_So, yeah ... Fuck old age._ _I’ll go down fighting the way I was meant to._

...

Dean Winchester slaps the loose notebook closed, cinches it around with a thick blue rubber band and shoves it into the front pocket of his hiking bag.

Good timing, too ... the infected are getting closer. The cloying smell hits him full-force and, holy damn, it’s like snorting rotten produce.

On the plus side, there’s nothing like a good stench to get your ass in gear.

Following his brother’s tall frame, Dean slinks around the scattered metal carcasses of cars clogging up the desolate highway. The herd of infected are shuffling two lanes over, close to the median ditch. The bouquet of nasty that slithers along like a convoy gives their gag reflexes a workout, but they need to keep quiet, so all five of them have raised their shirts over their noses in the hopes that it’ll help.

It doesn’t.

Sam, his giant of a baby brother, holds still on the side of a black Greyhound Bus, but Dean’s stuck beside a Tercel that’s weathered to the point you can almost hear the rust chomping metal.

Josh King, hunter extraordinaire, stops four cars ahead of the Greyhound, holding his knife close to his chest with his broad back wedged into the crevice by the wheel-well of a big black trailer. Above his head, the bold red and blue writing spells out _Marco’s Heating and Cooling._

Even when the trailer starts to rock on its low wheels from bodies on the far side bumping against it, Josh doesn’t budge. Nerves of steel that guy.

Glancing straight ahead, Dean notices that Rayna's crossed the ditch to the forest edge.

Would'na been Dean’s first choice, but, quick decisions and all. He catches a glimpse of the tip of her sword glinting by the edge of knotted bark, the rest of her hidden.

Thinking he’s clear, Dean edges out his left leg to crab-crawl over to Sammy. Because after everything, his brother’s safety is his top priority and most acknowledged fear. A fear usually lessened by proximity and weapons.

Nothing says love like a loaded shotgun.

Seconds before he’s about to round the Tercel’s bumper, a hand latches onto him firm and decisive. Dean’s yanked back against the door panel, heart ramped up, to find a fierce-faced Castiel holding him back, a quick hand plastered over his mouth to stifle a gasp.

At that moment, one of the infected passes over their heads on the far side of the black compact. Dean can’t see it, but he can hear its shuffling and ragged breaths, and if he concentrates, he can faintly make out the reflection of the shabby, infected man in Cas’ eyes.

Two more stagger close by. And another. One long conga line of infected hairless apes not five feet from where he’s crouched.

Awesome.

Feeling every muscle strain for action, Dean forces himself to focus on the blue irises trained on the movements of the threat. Dean trusts the ex-angel enough to stay put until the guy says otherwise.

But damn it stinks bad bein' this close. And it's not as if Cas smells a helluva lot better.

Fuck. Not that any of them do.

As they sit and wait for the infected to pass, Dean registers an itch of cowardice tapping at his ego. Logically, he knows there’s no way they can take on a herd this size—nearly three dozen strong, if not more. Even if they manage to come out on top, the chances of someone getting bit in the fray is way too high for his liking.

Damn, this world sucks.

The freaking diseased still have basic needs—sustenance at the top of that short list. They're more animals now than anything else; vultures or rabid dogs are the closest comparison. All of who they once were taken down to the basics: Eat and survive.

The infected are all about the chomp-chomp if they see ya. And the kicker is, they don’t seem to feel pain, making it that much harder to take them down. Higher-functioning is non-existent but their motor skills are decent.

Who knew you could take the bulk of lazy, desk-chair chained pencil-pushers and infect them with some Resident Evil mojo and _WHAM_ , you’ve got yourself a physically capable mass of arms, legs, and teeth.

Awesome, right? Not.

And shit, if their gnarly teeth break skin? You’re basically fucked. Either you turn, bleed to death, or manage to survive. The latter a damn rarity. Even then, who knows how long your next run will last? The infection takes people over without rhyme or reason. Who turns and who doesn't? It's a damn mystery.

Dean’s thoughts are cut short by Cas sliding his hand away. A hand that’s sweaty and just as dirty as his own. Dean hurries to wipe his mouth, feeling the constant grit slough off from his lips and chin, smearing onto his palm—the damn thing already dirt-lined, curving lines of brown wedged into the crevices that mark his identity.

Why bother, he wonders. Dirt’s basically a second skin.

"All clear?"

Castiel cranes over Dean's head, flicks his eyes once to Sam and nods. "We’re good," he acknowledges, still squatted in front of Dean, eyes scanning the landscape.

Satisfied the coast is clear, the former angel sheathes his nearly two-foot blade at his left hip and stands, his knees cracking and popping from the stagnant crouch.

Shaking his head with a laugh, Dean thumps his friend on the shoulder as they walk over to Sam and the others.

"You’re such an old man now," he teases. "All rickety and shit. Just like my hot ass.” Stepping close, Dean jabs Cas in the ribs with his elbow.

Sporting a vapid expression, Cas turns to him. “If I could have any of your traits, Dean, an aging body is _not_ the one I would have chosen.”

“Oh yeah, what would you have chosen, then?” he asks as they fall back in line with everyone else.

Dean flicks his eyes to Sam’s hazel ones. It’s only a second, and mostly unconscious—but it’s necessary. Call it an ingrained habit they've both gotten used to doing over the years. A kind of, ‘You’re solid, I’m solid. Cool let’s move on,’ deal.

"Your sparkling personality," Cas ribs back, his voice level. Dean catches the subtle lift at the corner of his mouth and he breaks into a laugh, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

“Sparkling personality, my ass,” Rayna quips from two steps ahead.

Dean snorts. “You’re one to talk, hard-ass.”

Eyeing her five-six frame, Dean’s drawn to the way the sword bumps against her leather jacket as she walks. Under all that cowhide she must be sweating something nasty. Of course that doesn’t stop him from doing a once-over on her. A sly trip from her stiff shoulders to the barely-there curve of her hips, all the way down to the stomp of her boots on the asphalt.

Ray often feigns indifference over the squalor of how they live but he’d bet good money she's wishing she had deodorant.

For that matter, so is he.

“Fuck you, Dean,” she snaps over her shoulder.

Arching the corner of his lip, Dean makes a face at the back of her head. Cas takes notice and smirks—their banter a constant form of amusement for the guy.

Rayna Krantz, or Ray as they call her, and he have what you’d call a tense relationship. Funny thing is, Dean knows it’s 'cause they’re the same damn person. She was a hunter before all this shit too. They’re both stubborn and excessively violent. Talk about a bad combination.

Dean can be a snide dick when he wants and she’ll always fight back with her own offensive arrogance.

Every now and again he feels bad for the others—getting trapped in the middle of their constant pissing match. If Dean says they should go south, she’ll counter with a vote for the north. But he’ll give her this much, she’s an utter badass in a fight. Wielding that sword like a damn knight if he’s honest.

It’s pretty hot, actually— _smokin'_ hot. More than once he's caught himself picturing her while he's jacking off, despite the fact that he can’t stand her personality. And yes, he’s well aware of the irony.

But c'mon, that smooth light brown skin, long, wavy dark hair. Ray’s hot and she's got mad skills. Dean doesn't stand a chance when it comes to his wayward thoughts when his hand's wrapped around his cock.

Not that he ever has before, he reminds himself. Fuckin' brain has a mind of its own. Clearly, so does his dick.

“How much longer, Sammy?” Dean asks twenty minutes later when the sound of their boots on the gravel shoulder starts to irritate him.

“We’ll get to Fulton by dusk,” replies Sam, adding, “I hope,” under his breath. Whether Sam’s eagerness is because the timing incites the potential for more threats, or because his little brother's sick of Dean and the others at this point, he’s not sure. Probably the latter.

They’ve been trekking from Arkansas. Heard through the CB some ways back that there were pockets of survivors there and moved on to lend a hand.

In a nutshell, that seems to be their newfound purpose; travelling through the country as they once did. Not in search of monsters but survivors. And they had to leave his Baby parked at the bunker and hoof it instead.

A freaking tragedy if you ask him.

Poor Baby; silent as the grave and gathering dust. God, some days he craves the feel and smell of that car. Unfortunately, too many damn roads have become parking lots full of abandoned vehicles and dead bodies, making it nearly impossible to navigate. And, sadly, the car is too loud. No matter how badass that might be they can't risk being tracked by Raiders. Oh, not to mention that the world ending and everything really killed resources for gas and functioning wheels.

In the rare instances they need quick transport, it requires some of Dean’s ill-acquired mechanic skills, sucking from a dirty hose, and then nearly retching as the burning swill of unleaded hurtles towards your throat.

Because, naturally, the cars that still have a hope in hell of starting are usually bone dry.

Did he mention how awesome things are? So awesome.

God, what was he thinking about anyway? Right, right. Arkansas.

Dean’s mind reels back to that sweltering day; the sunlight blinking through the leaves of the forest, a thread of hope giving air to his steps, taking him quickly into the depth of the thick landscape. It’s not often that he gets it in his head that a certain day will be a good one.

But that day he had. What a fucking mistake.

By the time the five of them had made it west of Lake Ouachita, tracking the location of survivors holding on to some semblance of life, they were too goddamn late.

Whether it was the infected or Raiders was hard to say. Too much ruin to decipher anything worth knowing.

Dead bodies were dead bodies. No two ways about it.

Amidst the torn tents, neglected corpses, garbage, and bloodied clothes, Dean had found a fucking doll. One of those cabbage-patch things with big fat cheeks and hair made of yarn. The sight of it smeared with blood hit him two-fold in the chest.

Squatting on the ground, Dean stared at the thing for a long minute before he picked it up and held it in his dirt-stained hands. Something about it caused a tear in his heart.

Of all the hells he’s seen in his life, including the real-deal, he realized that day that the new world order was something else.

Something graver.

Dean isn’t sure what prompted him to do it, but he’d dusted the damn thing off and stuffed it into the bottom of his back-pack. No one knows he took it, and he doesn’t care for that to become anyone else’s business but his own.

How would you even explain something like that? _Yeah, man, so I saw this doll and just_ had _to have it._ Fuck. No.

But still, it's there. Even now, as they walk and he hits rewind on the memory banks, it adds a little weight at the bottom of his bag, unseen and undefined. Twice he'd gone to toss the stupid thing and ended up sidetracked on some other mundane task. As though his life’s so filled with errands nowadays.

Riiiight...

Leaving Arkansas, coming up between state borders, they'd run into three men moving through the lands same as they’d been doin’. None of them were former hunters, but definitely military by the looks of their crew cuts and gear. The one big guy was a real Tom Skerritt lookin’ dude, and Dean, being the Top Gun lover that he is, went ahead and asked them right-off to join their merry-band of fighters. All three men had politely declined. And wasn’t that a downer after all that hope of finding some non-infected friends.

The strange thing is that not once before that, or since, has anyone said no to tagging along. Course they all died except for Ray and Josh but that’s not the point. Red flags went up, but what the fuck was he gonna do about it? It’s not as if he would’ve dragged their beefy asses by the feet or anything.

Needless to say, they went their separate ways.

Ray, of course, was pleased as fucking pie. “Don’t need any more macho dick-heads—one's more than enough,” she’d said. Dean had thrown her a beatific smile, adding a wink for good measure.

Man, he _loves_ busting her lady balls.

Catching up to the present, Dean wonders if they’ll ever see those dudes again—something about them had left a bad taste in his mouth. Shoving the worry down deep, Dean lets his brain drift to more pleasing territory.

Hmm, mental replay of Top Gun? Oh yeah.

They’re strolling along a few minutes later when Dean starts bobbing his head, humming, and turns to look at Cas. With a smirk, he starts off in a low but building cadence, “ _Revvin’ up your engine, listen to her hoooowlin’ roar!”_

Sam laughs and claims the next line without pause. “ _Metal under tension, begging you to touch and go!”_

Both Dean and Sam round back to flash Josh with matching grins, baiting him.

Josh, normally quiet, surprises them by throwing his thick muscular arm around Ray and sings loud and rough against her ear, “ _Highway to the danger zone! Riiiiiide into the danger zone_!”

Hiding a chuckle, Ray smacks Josh away from her. Cas’ deep laughter reaches Dean’s ears, but the joy doesn’t last. A couple infected stumble across their path and it kills the Top Gun montage they had going.

Can’t get five damn minutes of fun, he thinks.

 

Hours later, on the edge of dusk, the sunlight dims as the day winds down. They’re still on Route 54, keeping close to the long grass and trees on the east side in case they need fast cover. He hopes they won't; he's tired and there's a fucking rock in his shoe that he's too lazy to take out.

And the fact is, if he sits down now, he ain't getting back up.

To his right, Cas is taking several gulps from his water-bottle. Before the water has dried from his lips, he's already inattentively handing it off to Dean, knowing without having to verbalize anything that he'll take it.

Dean chugs down the lukewarm wetness, wishing it were the burn of alcohol. Handing the bottle back, he shoots Cas an expression of blatant yearning. The former servant of God shakes his head with a muted laugh, knowing how Dean craves past luxuries.

“Perhaps we can raid a liquor store in town,” his friend suggests, adjusting the weight of his pack. Dean reaches over to tighten the two shoulder straps, shifting the mass higher on the guy’s back. The yellow and grey hiking bag's getting worn and he makes a mental note to remind Cas to get a new one next town they hit.

“God, that’d be good, huh? I’d give my left nut for a fifth of whiskey, a beach, and a non-diseased naked woman right now.”

Cas laughs in a low chuckle, the sound befitting of the lowering sun. “Dean, I very much doubt you’d be thinking of sex if you’d been recently half-castrated.”

“Fucker,” Dean mutters before they fall quiet again.

It’s not as if there’s much need for conversation or abstract chit-chat. Every now and then one or all of them voices certain wishes for particular items or pastimes they all used to take for granted.

Ray misses her motorcycle, and man, can Dean can relate. There's a big, metaphoric hole in his heart where a sleek hulk of metal used to be. Josh misses a calm lifestyle, or so the guy says. This world seems suited to him. Josh King, a former legit hunter (animals, not monsters) used to build log homes.

Fucking log homes, man!

Dean’s always fancied himself a man's-man, but next to this guy he's practically a Disney Princess—not there’s anything wrong with that of course. The man never complains, not one for talk, and tends to look content more than any of them.

Sammy, of course, misses the bunker and the research ‘cause he’s a giant nerd. But their efforts in this decaying afterlife have purpose enough for the little bro.

And Cas? Well, Cas mostly misses his wings, his abilities. He never mentions it outright, but Dean knows. At odd moments, he'll see Cas shift his back in a peculiar way, and the guy’s face falls, and the pain is there, darkening his normally bright eyes. It's like a kick in the gut to see it.

As for Dean? Honestly, other than readily available food and booze, and the occasional bar and warm body to sate some needs, there isn’t much he gets reminiscent over. Although, working toilets and beds are pretty high up on the list, too.

It's not the _least_ bit funny that the entirety of Heaven abandoned them. Especially after all their bullshit over the years. Dean's hollered his round of _fuck you_ ’s to Heaven's dick squad numerous times. He can’t help it.

The fucking hypocrites.

Cas consistently and repeatedly reminds him that the angels are gone, leaving the world to its ruin. Sometimes he wonders why Cas didn’t go with them. Shit, he would've understood. Getting out when the angel could’ve. He sure as hell wishes Sam had gotten out somehow. Kid's been through enough.

More than enough, Dean amends.

When the infection hit, Sam had been arms deep in the trials to close the gates of Hell and so damn close to that finish line. It had taken a long time for him to get better. So long that Dean had begun to question if he ever would. Cas had been certain he’d heal.

But even now, Sam’s prone to getting sick easier than the rest of them. Whatever the trials had done had weakened his systems bad. Dean worries about the kid even more than he used to, which is hard enough to believe as it is.

Frigging monsters all running amok, infected groaning and shuffling around, no working angels to speak of, and the frequency of living outdoors don’t exactly mesh with Sam’s less than one-hundred percent status.

 _But_ , Dean concedes, it’s getting better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was tweaking until the very end and if there are any last minute errors, please message me on tumblr:  
> [Tumblr Ask Box](http://fandomsfanfictionsfangirlingohmy.tumblr.com/ask)


	2. Chapter 2

By the time they reach the edge of Fulton, the daylight's nothing more than a slim strip of orange along the horizon.

Finding a stretch of commercial, they opt for an old watering hole on the east side, across from a lumber yard. It’s hard to picture the dive before them in full swing. Now, it’s as dull as everything else, shaded with a grim layer of dirt and dust. Another dead town.

Taking a quick scan of the location, everything seems clear, but this new world’s a tricky bitch. To make sure things are kosher, he and Sam go in first and clear the place while the others keep an eye outside.

Other than some cats, which they kick out the back, everything is good to go. It’s depressing to see a decent meal scatter off across debris but Cas is adamant about not eating former pets.

Dean figures it’s the end of the damn world and if he gets hungry enough he’d eat just about anything, but for Cas’ sake, he’ll stick to stale chips and the occasional can of SpaghettiOs.

The five of them file in and go off to find a place to lay out a sleeping bag for the night. Sam and Dean flip a table upright and grab some chairs. A grey cloud puffs up in the stale air from all the movement and he stifles a cough.

“We’ll need to find food in the morning,” Sam mentions.

Dean taps the butt of his switch-knife on the table next to a smear of something black. “Yeah. What’s the game plan after that?” he asks. Not that he doesn’t already know. Making conversation for the sake of it.

“We’ll take stock of the town, see if we can find anyone.” His brother shrugs.

Rubbing a hand down his face, Dean sighs. He leans across the table and whispers in a rough voice, “What’re we doin’ Sammy? Is this it? _Really_?” Sam stares back at him. “Are we gonna go on walking this damn wasteland looking for the few jokers who’ve managed not to get eaten or murdered over a can of fucking beans?”

“Dean,” reproaches Sam. They’ve had this conversation before. And yeah, he gets it. _Really_ , he does.

“I know, _I know_. Wouldn’t sit right with me either.”

Exhaling in a harsh stream, Dean sits back against the chair, the oak spindles digging into the meat on his back. Registering the pinch and discomfort of the chair only tells him he's lost the soft cushion he once had from a no-holds-barred diet. Scraps might've given him killer definition, but he'd trade that for a truck-full of Big Macs in a heartbeat.

Aggravated as he is, Dean does agree with his younger brother. Because it never mattered the specific evil they were up against. Whether it was the true in-your-face-kind, or the vague construct of adversity was never a factor. It only mattered that they did their part to keep the good things good. To protect the innocent. It's what Dad taught them from Day-Fucking-One. And it’s not like their former jobs are done with. No, no, because that would be too much to hope for.

All the monsters remain in business. Thriving in the aftermath, the damn bastards.

Without a true civilization to keep things in check, evil’s gone public: Vampires all-out dining on the diseased in sick displays of savagery, wendigos preying on the survivors who’ve taken to the woods in the hopes of keeping far away from the infected and the raiders. Witches have cooked up new kinds of spells that use up body parts of the infected. Demons pop up once in a while, but for the most part, they seem disinterested in the state of things. Like it’s gotten so bad, they can’t make it any worse if they tried. It’s downright pathetic.

The only silver lining of the whole thing is that in the beginning things were so wild that monsters were tripping over each other, killing each other in rampant fights for territory. Demons had no case with the infected, and the more people that turned, the less hold they had on things.

For the last eight months, it’s been better. Boring even.

“It’s so fucking monotonous,” Dean whines, depressing the switch to release the short blade in his hand. Might as well carve some sigils. Not that it’ll do much good on the table, but whatever.

“Yeah, no shit. Who would’ve thought this is what would happen to the world, huh?” Sam snorts. Dean raises his eyebrows in agreement. Too right, he thinks. After Lucifer, and Leviathan, and Purgatory, Hell, and Heaven. The whole world gets taken down by a damn virus? Fucking meddling, douchey scientists. Ugh.

Dean can feel a deep grimace cutting lines into his dog-tired face. God, how old is he even? Fuck ... too damn old is what. On his way down the hill to forty. What a nerve-wracking thought. And that’s without counting the dragged-out years in Hell.

Best not to think of that.

“You taking first?” he asks, exhaustion dragging his words. Sam nods, reaching to snag Dean’s gun and demon-knife. As he stands with a stretch, arms arching back over his head, he takes a quick inventory of the front room before meeting Sam’s hazel eyes. “See where Cas went?”

“Far left, towards the back.”

Dean follows the directions, shuffling down the narrow hallway, his boots barely lifting off the linoleum. Moving past an opening on the right, he sees Josh in the kitchen, laid out on a long steel table, a pile of clothes rumpled under his head for a makeshift pillow. Rayna’s nowhere to be seen but she’s usually good at finding some hidden niche for herself.

'Course, with a burly group of dudes, Dean’d be doing the same thing if he were a woman.

Cas, he finds, is in the once-office, his ass parked in the desk-chair, feet up on old stacks of papers. Clumps of packed dirt have flaked from his boots onto the dust-fuzzy sheets. Lids starting to hang low, Cas’ eyes follow his movements in a sluggish way.

Relief of the promise of rest has Dean's shoulders slumping. He lets his heavy bag drop to the floor and parks his ass on the desk after shoving some papers to the far corner.

The room is tiny. Like closet-sized small, but he opts for a familiar face instead of seclusion. Even though Cas is rocking humanity sans wings, Dean feels calmer when he’s around. Safer, maybe. But then it could also be that he’s become protective where the now-human is concerned. It's hard to say. Either way, the need's there.

The inside of his boots are tight and hot, but he took them off once before, and they’d ended up having to make a hasty escape. Running on gravel in sock feet had hurt like a bitch. It also destroyed the only decent pair of socks he’d had left at the time.

Besides, he might kill Cas with the stink. Better safe than sorry.

The ex-winger in question pulls a sweater from his bag and passes it over, promptly sweeping an arm across the rest of the desk, throwing every last paper onto the floor. There's a joke somewhere in that but Dean's too tired to work it out. The mountain of sheets flutter to the olive-coloured tiles, disturbing the stale silence of the restaurant for a moment before it settles.

Thanking him with a gruff mumble, Dean bunches the dark grey sweater—one of his own, he notices—and places it at the far end of the desk. Unravelling his seated form, he lies out over the five-foot slab, having to tuck his legs in to fit. Cas’ feet stay propped near his midsection and he’s thankful that Cas has also opted to keep his military-grade boots on.

They both fall into a less-than-deep and restless sleep until Sam comes in to switch out two hours later. Little brother finds somewhere else to crash for two hours; he’s too gargantuan for such a tiny ass room. Shit, guy’s too big for most places they crash in, come to think of it.

On the way out, Dean grabs the frayed notebook from his bag.

Groggy but as awake as he's gonna get, he trudges back to the front dining area for his two-hour shift. They all rotate, usually two hours max, one person getting out of duty each night. Eight hours is a good solid time to bunker down, giving most of them six hours of shuteye. Unless one of them is sick or injured, then they'll stay longer and recoup. Had to do a lot of that with Sam in the beginning.

As he lands into the same chair as before and gets about as comfy as possible, his mind blanks, drifting back about two years. In an attempt to avoid banging his head on the table to pass the time, Dean plants the notebook on the table and figures there’s nothing better to do.

Skimming over the first few entries, he tries to decide what to write. When he began jotting things down as a result of Sam’s unrelenting nagging, he started out with an overview of the Winchester history: Hunting, death, hunting, death. Deals. Deals gone bad. And then badder.

 _Basically_ , he’d written, _everyone dies and my body is covered in perpetual scars and bruises like some kind of gruesome body art._

And now, Dean ponders, might as well start at the beginning of this clusterfuck.

…

_May-ish, 2013 ... I’m pretty sure that was the date we saw it. The first report on the news, I mean. It seemed kind of lame. Got a call from a hunter telling us to flip the news on. So we did—Sam and I._

_It went something like this if memory serves:_ The CDC has reported over a hundred new counts of an unidentifiable virus strain that they’ve named, ‘Pathogen H19’. They believe it may be related to the live-subject testing of the groundbreaking formula for paralytic patients. Anyone experiencing symptoms similar to: stroke, dizziness, disruption of speech, or uncharacteristic behaviours should report to the nearest hospital immediately _... Yadda, yadda._

 _Uncharacteristic behaviours? It was weird, sure, but not totally bizarre. God knows we'd seen weirder._ _We didn’t think much of it to be honest. Not until later that night. People had started posting videos online._

_Holy Fuck._

_It was like Zombies and Croatoans had mated and created some new freaky monster. Except_ not _a monster. Just people. Innocent people infected by some demented virus that apparently redirected all their synapses into the basic command centre of the brain. Sam went on and ON about a whole lot of biological crap, but I'll stick with the basics: Rational thought and reason are gone. Kudos to the scientists though, paralytics gained motor function, or so I heard. But also one hell of an anger-management problem and a penchant for anything edible. Super gross._

_Anyway, whether it was a blessing or a curse, the bunker went into panic mode that first night. Turns out it wasn't just wired to lockdown for supernatural crap, but all sorts of crap. Sam called other hunters trying to get them to us and open the damn door—not that it would’ve helped as they didn’t have the key anyway. Stupid Men of Letters HQ._

_Speaking of the honorary MOL guys, Kevin was the first person we looked for when we got out, the last we knew he’d been kidnapped by Crowley. Both of them were in the wind. The kid could be alive, we just don't know. Same with Charlie. Gone. I want to believe they're both somewhere, surviving ... hanging on. Maybe we just haven’t run into them yet? But each day that goes by, each town we go through and find nothing, I just… I can't keep…_

_So the hunters were swamped. With the upsurge of the disease spreading so fast, they didn’t have time to unlock our sorry asses. Not to mention they were overloaded with every supernatural creep crawling out of the woodwork._

_I prayed to Cas every fucking day. But he never showed. Never answered his phone. It wasn’t exactly a good sign._

_Networks on the TV started dropping like flies and by the third week all we got was static. That was when we knew how bad it was. And there we were ... stuck as fuck. I’d never been so pissed off in my life. Fucking enraged! Think I'm exaggerating? Nah. I threw a lot of shit. And I mean A LOT. Sam clocked me in the face one day. I don't even blame the kid._

_In a little over a month, both the TV and the internet were dead. We had several radios and an old CB. The radios offered some updates but they were sketchy. A lot of people asking for help. The CB was worse._

_Our calls got nowhere. Our prayers even less so. Hell, we even tried summoning demons and angels. It all turned up zilch. The next two months or so weren’t easy. The uncertainty, the diminishing contact with the outside world. No one was coming. Our food supplies had gotten damn low. I sure as hell wasn't gonna starve to death, I'd rather shoot myself in the face. Sam and I were starting to get on each other’s nerves._

_Around the middle of September, I think, there was a loud bang on the door. And shit, after a couple months of silence, that shit fucking made me jump like I’d been tasered. Sam nearly screamed. And before you sit there and think, “What a bunch of bitch-ass little girls,” how about fuck you asshat?_

_Sam might tell you different, but I'm pretty sure I cleared the whole flight of stairs. I banged on the door, and heard Cas’ familiar voice call back._

_The guy was all, “Dean, I hope it’s you,” and Sam looked at me like, “What the fuck am I, chopped liver?” Friggin’ hilarious. So I’m clearly Cas’ favourite. Whatever. I’m awesome._

_Anyway, in the few seconds we waited for Cas to open the damn door, all I could think was fuck that dude better have his goddamn key or he’s getting punched in the face one way or another._

_Back when we found the bunker, we’d had two extras made in the same voo-doo fashion as the old one. Sam and I had one, and so did Cas. Even now, we still have them. Just in case._

_Anyway, when the door swung inward, I, Dean Winchester (of sound mind), willfully and readily admit I fucking threw myself at the guy. It was so damn good to see another person that wasn’t Sam—I mean I love that kid, don’t get me wrong, but you can only stand being alone with someone for so long._

_Cas sort of short-circuited from the attack-hug, looking confused the way he usually does. And then I started laughing out of delirium. Sucking back fresh air after being trapped in a bunker. Heaven, man. Heaven. But not like real Heaven, because real Heaven sucks balls._

_Then Cas filled us in on all the gory details and everything he knew about what had happened, which really wasn’t much more than we already knew. Guy was barely an angel anymore. He’d held on just long enough to hit Sam and I up with some angel protection from the virus, just in case either of us ever got bit. After that his angel mojo pretty much tanked. Dude's just like the rest of us now._

…

Dean finishes the sentence and closes the black notebook, tucking the blue, chewed pen inside the binding. He still has plenty of time to kill before he wakes Josh but his hand’s aching from the chicken-scratch he calls handwriting. Stretching out his fingers, Dean begins tapping out a nameless beat on his knee.

An hour and several knee-tapping beats later, he rises out of the stiff wooden chair and makes his way to the kitchen—wishing he was headed that way for food, but no dice. That’ll be tomorrow’s task.

He steps in only far enough to shake Josh’s foot hanging off the end of the steel table. The man jolts up wielding a knife, his hair a disheveled mess of thick, dirty-blond, the side of his face dented with lines from the rumpled pile of clothes.

“—The _fuck_ Winchester!” he snaps at Dean, slipping his knife back into a small band under his sleeve.

“You’re up. I’m checking out for the rest of the night. Ray or Cas is next.”

Josh mutters something unclear and scratches into the bushy-thick depths of his beard. No doubt the murmur is an insult thrown out for Dean, but he leaves it and heads back to the office.

Stepping through the door, Dean finds Cas with his head bent towards one shoulder, his neck strained. A light snore disrupts the quiet of the room and seeing Cas racking in a good set of Z’s, he hopes that in two hours, Josh wakes Ray instead—wherever the hell she is.

Dean climbs onto the desk as quietly as possible, but the thing shifts on wobbly legs under his weight and cracks against the wall. The noise startles Cas; one eye popping open to double-check that it’s him and not some imminent attack.

“Sorry, man,” he whispers. Cas shuts back down, tapping his foot on Dean’s arm as a simple _hey_ and _goodnight_ all in the same gesture.

Dean stirs half-awake when Cas leaves to take post near dawn. The ex-angel sheds his worn green jacket and places it over Dean’s curled form.

Mumbling something between an aggrieved groan for being woken and a half-assed thanks, Dean’s grateful for the added warmth. This far north in the fall serves up some chilly nights. The worn jacket smells of outside air and sweat. It's relaxing.

At full dawn, Sam slips into the room and nudges his shoulder.

“Time to head out.”

Dean groans. It’s all the answer Sam’s getting.

Moving his tongue around inside his pasty mouth, Dean misses coffee like an amputated limb. His brother disappears through the doorway and the faint noises of people moving about reach his ears.

Dean rights himself into a seated position on the desk, staring blearily at the back wall behind the chair. It’s covered in order-sheets, product ads, and employee time-tables. He stares at it until his brain is cranking with all gears. Maybe closer to half capacity for gear-cranking, but enough that he won't die walking from the pea-sized office to the front room.

Out front, everyone is ready to scavenge for scraps. It takes him longer than the rest to get himself organized; which basically consists of a quick piss out front where he tries to hork up whatever's died in his esophagus, followed up by a chug of water, and then heaving his backpack up onto his shoulders.

"Let's do this," he says with all the energy of a decade-old AA battery.

They break out; Sam and Dean together, the other three in a separate group. It irks him that Cas goes off with Josh and Ray. The five of them have been together long enough that it’s not that Dean finds them distrustful, but just the same with Sammy, Dean hates when Cas is out of his sight in this festering world. Even more so because the dude’s human now.

Breakable and killable just like the rest of us sorry bastards.


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh god _,_ s’good shit,” mumbles Dean, mouth chockfull of old potato chips.

According to the foil bag, they’re BBQ flavoured, but being over two years old they tend to stick into his molars annoyingly. Despite that, its food and it ain’t half bad.

“Good?” Sam arches a dubious brow.

Dean swallows and says, “Better than the weird green shit you found,” as he points at the clear, plastic container filled with ... _leaves_? Pretty sure those are dried leaves.

“It’s dehydrated kale,” Sam snips bitchily. Okay there, Mrs. Food Superior.

“Looks like Treebeard took a shit in your Tupperware,” Dean deadpans. Sam chortles a laugh and bits of flaky green comically hurtle out of his mouth.

Dean snorts at his brother’s mess and smiles as he tosses back another handful. They continue to mow-down some of their loot, waiting for the rest of their group to return.

Neither of them will fully relax until they're back. It's not an acknowledged worry by any means; heck, they've been together far too long to even think about it. But it's there, in the stiff set of their shoulders, in their ever-shifting eyes to check for movement.

An hour later, when the remaining three slip through the door, bags full, looking no worse than when they left, Dean gathers everything went fine. No one’s bloody or limping and now he can unwind for a short while.

Cas halts a couple steps in and shoots Dean a suggestive grin, a bit teasing as he drops his bag to the floor.

“What?” Dean asks, his excitement growing.

“Be patient.” Cas pegs him with a look.

Josh and Ray have already taken seats and begun eating. The former angel bends over and rummages theatrically while Dean and his brother peer over the tables between them, trying to look through the scattering of furniture to see what Cas is about to pull out. Judging by the expressions of the others, they’re in on the secret goodie Cas must’ve snagged. Those patient, knowing smiles are an added taunt.

Glancing first at Dean, wearing the most awesome self-satisfied grin, Cas lifts out something and holds it high. It’s long, cylindrical, tapering at the top.

Good God in Heaven ... Is that _?_

“Oh, don’t tease me, baby!” Dean whimpers. From the corner of his eye, he can see Sammy turn and smirk his way, but Dean ignores the giant brat.

Nah, Dean's only got eyes for that slim form, the sleek glass, the sloshing promise of dulled thoughts. Cas strides over with the bottle. Man, he should be sporting wings for this kind of delivery. The beautiful amber liquid sloshes near the top. Dean’s entire mouth floods with saliva.

Just shy of his seat, Cas stops and peers down at him as if he's testing his patience.

"Oh, c'mon! Don't be the alcohol equivalent of a cocktease!"

With a devilish grin, his ancient friend dangles the bottle high out of reach. "Hmm, is this what you want, Dean?"

Biting his tongue, Dean punches Cas in the gut and catches the bottle as it falls. Castiel straightens, throwing him a dirty look.

“I get punched for finding that? I should be getting a foot massage." Cas twists around and sits back onto the nearby table. "I’ve heard those are amazing,” he adds dreamily.

Sam grins. “They are.”

“Fuckin’ back massages, I’d do some questionable things for a solid back massage,” says Josh. The blond stares around at everyone like he’s checking for willing parties. No one gives in.

Dean’s ignoring them all, twisting the cap off, inhaling deep. _Oh yeah_ , she’s sharp, thick, and _perfect_. He looks up with sheer devotion in his eyes. “You’re the best, most awesome friend I’ve ever had.” Dear god, he could almost cry.

His friend laughs. “No foot massage?”

“You kidding?! Have you smelled your feet?”

“Fine. But don't think I got that solely for you, Dean, you have to share it.”

Agreeing with an eager nod, he takes the first sip. Or massive gulp. Whatever.

An instant, warming buzz tingles throughout his body; the kind of glorious shiver he remembers after so many first sips over the years. It’s like an orgasm for his mouth. His throat’s warm, his taste buds are fucking dancing. Damn, his _teeth_ are even happy! As though all his probable cavities are drinking down the booze with as much zeal as he is. The whiskey is decent shit too, not his normal brand, but it’s been so long since Dean’s had anything good in his mouth that he thinks it might be better.

Basking in the warmth of it, he passes the bottle off to Sam, who sucks back a long draught, coughs, and smiles as if the sun itself has shone for him. “Oh, _wow!_ ” He clears his throat and takes a second sip. “Shit, that's good.”

Dean’s never seen his brother enjoy booze this much. He’s damn proud.

Sam hands over the Whiskey to Ray who swigs it back like a pro, wiping her glossy lips on the sleeve of her thin black shirt. They pass it around with reverence—it’s been a while since they’ve found good hooch. Cas coughs more than Sam, his face pinching tight as he swallows.

“It never ceases to amaze me."

"What's that?"

"How much stronger alcohol is as a human,” he replies in that matter-of-fact Castiel way.

“I’ll bet,” Dean remarks, getting his eager hands back on the bottle.

One more sip.

It’s too good to waste all at once, so they pack up their stores, heave their bags up onto their backs and decide to head on towards another city, moving west to more temperate climates.

Walking down another stretch of highway, they're feeling pretty good, considering. In good spirits, one might say. Dean blurts a laugh.

“Good spirits,” he mumbles, chuckling to himself.

Behind him, he can feel Ray scowling at the back of his head. “Crazy fucker,” she mutters under her breath.

Cas and Sam, walking two steps ahead don’t so much as glance back at him. They’re used to his random weirdness.

The day disappears on them and it gets darker with each passing second. The time to make a decision is now. They’ve got two choices: The woods or the road.

Ah, the endless choices are great, aren't they?

They’re not stopping to sleep tonight. It's better to walk until they find a suitable place, and besides, they’ve got the energy—might as well use it. The road gets the occasional action, infected mostly. Woods get other types of creepy in them, monsters and such. The kind Sam, Dean, and Ray know how to handle. But it’s one thing to go on a hunt every week with Sam, and a whole 'nother to be perpetually walking the goddamn country and also having to fight a couple of ghouls, or a wendigo, or a vengeful spirit, or some other whatchamacallit. Not to mention they're a bit low on ammo. A fact he reminds his brother of with a short look.

Dean, therefore, reasons the road is better. Infected are predictable and easy to take out, and that’s not the case in the woods. Rayna maintains this area's been quiet so far monster-wise, thinks it’s better to take to the woods and avoid another herd. Dean argues back that it’s dark and hard to see, and they’ll trip all over the damn place. She says roads aren’t much better with all the debris.

They're bristling at each other, voices rising, when Sam snaps. Josh, as per usual, hangs back and lets them duke it out. Little bro throws a fit, gettin’ all huffy and authoritative, ultimately decreeing they stay on the road.

 _Ha_. Dean smiles that cocky shit-eating grin he knows he’s got—all teeth and swagger—and for a moment thinks Rayna’s gonna throw one. But she holds her arm rigid by her side and stomps off ahead of them.

On. The. Road. _Hardy-har-har._

Glancing over at Cas, still sportin' his smug smile, he sees the man shaking his head. “Every time.” Cas sighs.

Dean throws an arm around his shoulders and leans in. "Gotta entertain you guys somehow." Moving away from his friend and casting his eyes to the road ahead, they get moving along, side-by-side, with nothing but the quiet of the night as their afterlife companion.

They walk for hours on end. Stopping every now and again to drink or snack, or take care of one's business. Once in a while, Dean reflects back on all the gory Z-movies he used to watch. There had always been so much action. Lots of screaming and running. The sad reality is that more often than not, they're just walking. It’s discouraging.

To pass the time, Dean hums the tune to _I'm Gonna Be_ by the Proclaimers. After the fourth rendition of: " _And I would walk five hundred miles_!" he jumps back from Ray's swift heel-spin and flying fist. "Okay, okay!" The urge to start-up again eats away at him, but a half hour later the eerie nighttime atmosphere settles his mood.

Sometime towards dawn, a few birds begin to chirp and Dean slows to a snail's pace. It’s nice to take a moment to hear the continuing of life. Little pleasant chirps from tiny winged creatures merely excited for the dawn. Waiting to see that ball of light break across the landscape, not caring that the world has stopped.

Must be nice.

Thinking of winged creatures, Dean side-eyes Cas. There’s a lot he’s wondered about his friend, especially when there's little else to do. He thinks about Cas staying, he thinks about Cas human and vulnerable. He thinks about Cas having all the memories of the stages of the earth and wondering how this little blip compares to, say, the asteroid wiping out the dinosaurs? And, was that planned somehow? Like the apocalypse. There are times when he considers himself the embodiment of a ball and chain. Not in the marriage sense. God no. More in the, ‘he-got-stuck-here-because-of-me’ sense. There’s no denying it either.

The poor bastard is human now.

Constantly on the brink of starvation, exhaustion, and death because ... because of _me_. Because he gave up his family and his way of life to take _our_ damn side in a war that’s long forgotten. After nights like this, the guilt fills in the cracks that dirt hasn't yet reached. It all leaves Dean feeling a shade of rotten.

Even though Sammy's his brother and he loves that kid more than he knows is healthy, Cas is no doubt his best friend, and they've grown closer in the time they’ve been doing as they do: walking, marching, surviving. They've come to know each other better than ever before. In the way only constant togetherness can really bring about—

Shit! Almost forgot...

Dean swings his bag around to his front, releasing one strap. He digs around until he hears crinkling. Glancing down, Dean sees the words, 'Smart Food' and knows Cas’ll be happy. Or at least he damn well better be since Dean had saved it for him, finding it alongside the stale BBQ chips he'd eaten earlier.

It’s pitch dark and they’re tightly grouped with Cas on his right. Dean hands the bag over without a word.

Lacking tact or restraint, Cas exclaims, “Ooh! Popcorn!”

Seconds later, the crinkly tearing of the foil bag disrupts the dawn. It's followed by crunching and undignified moaning. Dean smiles at the idiot, happy to have given the guy some fleeting joy.

“I swear, the two of you are like five year olds,” Sam butts in, having slowed to match Dean's pace. His big arm reaches across Dean’s chest and manages to snag a small handful before Cas is pulling it away.

“I believe they’re mine,” grumbles Cas.

Dean _tsks_ , reaching for some himself. “Share it with the group or you have to give _me_ a foot massage,” he reminds his friend, grinning over in the fading dark.

“Well that's not happening.”

Cas grudgingly passes the small bag around. It’s emptied depressingly fast, but the ex-angel got more than anyone else so that's a plus. Gotta count the small things—people still getting to relish what they like. Shit's hard to come by now.

All at once, the birds go silent, as if their morning songs have been muted. Dean stops in a snap, his arm darting out to block Cas from taking another step. Sam pauses on his left. With the sounds of their boots absent, their breaths lowering to inaudible, they listen intently.

_Scraaaaape…_

They collectively inhale in the breath of silence, only to hear the sound again.

_Scraaaaape…_

What the hell? Dean tries to see through the barely registering early morning glow, but he's gettin' nothing.

Sam grabs his forearm, releases it and taps twice. Dean nods, following the direction his brother's eyes are trained on. And yup, he sees the two of them now. No more than a darker shadow against the rest of the world.

The smell hits as his eyes adjust. Only two, he reminds himself. Still, he hates doing this. ‘Cause they aren't actually dead, despite appearances. They're diseased. But even so, they are dangerous. Incurable, violent, and slowly getting nastier and nastier by the day.

And yet somehow ... _not_ dying.

You’d think they would all be getting colds and dying, or _something_. But they’re not. He’s wondered about this too. They all have. Cas offers no explanation. “ _I’m not a human doctor, Dean,”_ he always says when Dean pelts him with questions when he’s bored or irritable.

Sam and Josh are closest and they creep through some cars, pulling blades out as they do. As the dull noise of controlled violence breaks the quiet, a growl and a hard blast of air erupts from behind him.

 _Fuck_.

Dean one-eighty's it to find some fugly has got her hands on Cas, snapping jaws at the guy's neck. _Clack. Clack. Clack._ Worst sound ever.

Panicked, Cas is trying to spin the thing off but the infected woman has all but climbed on him, using his backpack as leverage, and it’s now twisted up, trapping the two together like some Picasso Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Dean pulls out his blade, meeting Cas’ eyes for a fleeting second. He flashes his determined stare up to the woman and plunges the blade into her snarling, dirty face. Blood oozes slow and dark from the wound, running down her cheek. All of her limbs loosen at once and she bonelessly drops to the ground with a crunch, leaving him standing with his arm raised holding the knife.

On the ground, her fingers twitch but she stays put. Cas stares at her as he adjusts his pack, his breath still quick and uneven.

“Thanks,” Castiel breathes with relief.

“Anytime.” Dean wipes his blade on the grass. He’s crouched low, observing the woman, his features calm.

“Sorry ma’am,” he whispers sincerely before giving a little push and letting her corpse roll down into the ditch. He swallows a stint of nausea.

What if she could've been cured?

They're walking away a couple minutes later, just a normal night really, but there’s a moment where Dean is overcome by this magnificent feeling of _NO_. A pure and simple sensation that it’s all wrong. The world is off its hinges and nothing is right.

Nothing reminds him more of that than the fact that the birds never went back to singing their morning tunes.

 

 

**  
**


	4. Chapter 4

“ _And you don’t feel much like ridin’, you just wish the trip was through ... Here I am, on the road again...”_

Listening to Dean’s murmured rendition of some rock song, Castiel scans the vast landscape, appreciating the colours and varying terrain of Colorado. It’s been two and a half weeks since they left Fulton, with a lot of road left to go on the way to Wyoming; their current short-term destination.

Which can’t come soon enough.

Castiel’s feet are sore, his pinkie toe throbbing inside his boot—the result of a loose sock that’s decided it will bunch up and slowly try to kill him.

They’ve been walking steady nearly every day, averaging a good twelve to sixteen hours, depending on the weather and need for rest.

It’s the beginning of autumn and the days are warm and breezy. Taking a long breath, he can sense the rotting leaves in earthy notes being carried on the wind. Nights are regrettably cold, making fires a necessity.

Castiel’s still not used to these drastic temperature changes. How can he be sweating at midday, and shivering hours later? Sometimes he wonders how humans ever survived as a species.

Resilience, he decides.

Turning his eyes to the sky, Castiel imagines it’s somewhere around early afternoon and the blazing sun from morning has started to duck behind thick, white clouds that have progressively rolled in the last couple hours. At times, the glow from the sun peeks out over the bubbly edges, creating a sharp radiance of light that’s almost heavenly. Picture-worthy, one might say. Not that he has a camera. Come to think of it, he’s never used one before.

Unaware that he’s so wholly distracted by what’s above, he fails to notice the dead body that’s sprawled across the pavement. With a lurch, he trips and Sam manages to grab him before he sails to the asphalt.

“ _Whoa_ —keep your eyes on the ground, Cas,” says Sam as he steps away.

The comment strikes a chord in him, and for a moment, Castiel feels farther away from Heaven than ever before. Nothing confirms that more than the fact that he’s just tripped over a corpse.

It never used to bother him, being so distant from the Heavenly Host, but perhaps the world has become too dark. Part of him craves the ingrained peace and light that existed up there with his brethren.

Yes, there was plenty of corruption, but like anything else, there’s always more to something than just the bad or the good.

Without looking, he can feel Dean’s smirk from the side. No doubt laughing at him for having tripped over the tragic remnants of the destruction of the world.

“We walked through the night,” he says in his defense. “I’m tired.”

Dean claps him on the back. “Keep motorin’, we’ll bunker down soon.”

The forward motion from Dean’s palm is tempting. It would be wonderful to let it knock him over, crash to the ground, and maybe close his eyes for a while.

Exhaustion has various levels, he’s discovered. Castiel’s gone past irritable into wanting nothing more than a level surface. His boots feel heavier than lead, his mouth parched. But they’re low on water so he’ll wait until they get more before he downs the rest.

But the worst part of being this tired, is that it claws at the hope he has left.

Days like this, the ruin of the world hangs over his shoulders. Especially when the silence of this new reality leaves nothing to distract him from bleaker thoughts. Though it was no fault of his that they are surrounded by infection and death, he still feels responsible somehow. If the rest of his kind had stayed, he might’ve retained his powers and his wings, and together, the angels could have fixed this.

But they gave up. Deserting this world for another. Somewhere distant in the galaxy, or perhaps another dimension unknown to them. There are so many. Castiel wonders if there’s enough power left in this world to form a spell strong enough to take them to another time, or another place.

Months ago, he’d brought up the idea to Sam and Dean. But they’d shared a look with each other and he knew from their silent exchange that they’d never leave this place. Their lives were built upon the vocation of saving the innocent. And there were still loved ones here: Charlie, Kevin, Garth, other hunters over the years that they now wonder about.

The road they’re on inclines sharply; the mountainous landscape looming in the distance beyond the grasslands. Despite his frustrations with the status quo, there are silver linings he can’t deny.

For one, he spends his days with Sam and Dean—his favourite of all the humans to ever exist. They’re his family. And he’d rather be in this wasteland with them, than in some utopia without.

The clouds end up being not as friendly as they’d first seemed and a few hours later as they’re getting higher in altitude, cutting through east of more serious elevations, it starts to rain. The fat droplets are icy cold, causing shivers as they splatter, soaking through his clothes. The chill that rolls in burrows deep towards his bones.

Taking off at a light jog, the five of them find cover off Highway 119 in an old bar called The Last Shot.

What an ominous name, he thinks.

The rain hits fast and they’re more than damp as they bust through the door. Castiel tosses his backpack onto a bar top and sheds his jacket. Josh is already shucking half his clothes. Sam and Dean are onto breaking a high table into pieces. If the rain eases off, they’ll put together a good fire with the pieces. Looks like they’ll be spending the night.

It’s a relief.  

“Cas?” Ray looks over at him, her dark eyebrows raised. Like the others, she’s also removed her outer layers and faces him wearing tight black jeans and a white tank-top.

“Right behind you.”

Pulling out his machete, he follows her through the building to check for lingering infected or whatever else might be lurking in the shadows. No sounds had met their abrasive break-in, and he isn’t quite as alert as perhaps he should be. Oh well. One can’t always be on high alert, not as a human anyway.

Nearing the far end of the building they find there’s an addition at the back. It’s cordoned off by piles of debris; old shelving, boxes, and chairs. The impediment is a structured warning, and they both share a look before they decide to take it down and cross to the other side.

Just in case things go awry, Castiel whistles back to let the other guys know that there might be trouble. He and Ray make quick work of the pile-up and as they step into the darkened backside of the building, both of them go instantly still, hearts doubling pace.

On the blood-smeared hardwood floor, huddled around a disemboweled body, are three infected chowing down with dim slurps and smacks, oblivious to their intrusion. A shift in the air tells him that the others are behind him and he can feel Sam’s height just over his shoulder.

Dean or Josh, he can’t tell, taps him on the arm and that’s the signal he needs to rush forward for an attack. Beside him, Ray yanks out her short knife and crosses into the room with lithe, solid strides.

Glad for the heavy-duty boots Dean had insisted on, Castiel kicks hard into the closest infected. Its frail body is thrown onto its back. He wastes no time in moving down on it, bringing his blade in an angle across its throat. The immediate spurt of blood turns his stomach. This is a sick person. _Was_ a sick person. Thankfully, with a sharp blade, it only takes one expert cut. And given the number of kills he’s accumulated, he is an expert.

The ruckus of activity behind him has almost come to an end.

Out of the silence, a high squeak screeches through the air just as he’s rising from a knee off the floor. Dean slams into him and they both collide against the wall.

“Fuck!” Dean’s voice is loud and abrasive near his ear. It’s obvious Dean slipped in the sludge on the wood floor and Castiel laughs, though tiredly, as he pushes against his friend’s broad shoulders.

“Now who should watch where they’re going,” he says, grasping Dean’s bicep. Not that it’s necessary to offer support.

“I _was_ watching!” Dean snaps, shoving his knife back into its leather casing at the back of his jeans and jerking away from them.

When Dean storms off down the hall, Cas meets eyes with the rest, and the four of them know they might be in for a rough couple days. Dean falls into these moods every few months. There appears to be no rhyme or reason. Though Castiel suspects that his friend lets the harsh world build on him until he needs to vent but isn’t sure how.

In the past, Dean would lean on the support of booze and women to calm his nerves, but there isn’t much opportunity for that nowadays.

They work together to pick up the bodies and carry them out the front door and around to the back where they’re dumped in a heap, the rain soaking them for a second time. Walking back inside, Castiel can hardly bear the thought of having dumped people in the back like refuse. But the world has been failing for too long. He’s learned that there’s nothing he can do. He’s surviving, and that’s the extent of it. As always, he forces himself to remain optimistic, to hope for a better future.

One day, he thinks, _one day_ it will be better than this. Because it has to be.

The rain’s died down from a heavy downpour to a thick drizzle but it’s looking like it will hang around all night. And that means, there won’t be a fire, even though they have the wood for it.

Unclipping his rolled sleeping bag from the straps at the bottom of his hiking pack, Castiel surveys the room and considers his options: One room beyond the dining area on the far side, and the disgusting one down the hall in the space they just evacuated. The latter is not a choice in his decision.

Unable to decide, he says, “I’ll take the first watch. Everyone else should get some sleep. If the rain stops, I’ll wake you.”

“No, don’t,” Sam cuts in. “We’ve been going all night already. You’re beat. Let’s all get some rest.”

Cas squints at his tall friend, wondering if he’s suffering the after effects of his diminished health. For now, the younger brother seems tired but no more than the rest of them. For months, not that he’d ever told Dean, he didn’t think Sam would ever get better after the trials.

Josh and Ray rock-paper-scissors for the bar top. Ray wins and simpers at him, her teeth white against the darker shade of her skin. It reminds him that his own need brushing.

Dean must be in the room across from him, and he imagines that’s why Sam is making his way over there.

Castiel sets up his sleeping bag next to the half wall by the main door. Though he won’t lay on it for fear that he might doze off, he pulls it up along the wall and sits, resting his shoulder against the swishy fabric.

The rhythm of the rain makes him drowsy, but he fights it. Turbulent, unpredictable wind changes the sound of its patter and sometimes, if the gusts are just right, the rain whips against the glass front door creating a chorus of splats.

Sliding his tongue over his front teeth, he grimaces. Time to pull out that toothbrush, he thinks, and moves to his right. One of them has toothpaste, but he can’t remember who. He settles for scrubbing them dry.

Not an hour into his watch, footsteps catch his attention from the other room seconds before the door opens. Dean’s thrown on light track pants; his damp jeans probably hanging somewhere. The long-sleeve grey shirt he’s wearing has a few buttons at the top, but they’re all unbuttoned, exposing a good portion of his toned chest. The whole thing makes Dean look a little less Dean-like than normal.

Without a word, he walks through the tables, steps to the side of the pile of wood that they never got a chance to burn and slumps down to the floor beside Cas in a huff. It’s more than clear he can’t sleep, probably still grouchy from before.

They both settle their eyes and ears on the rain and a few minutes go by before either of them speaks.

“It really sucks sometimes, doesn’t it?” says Dean, his voice a low whisper, trying not to wake the others.

Castiel nods once and turns to look over his right shoulder. Even close as they are, the room is dark and the sun has already set. Features that Castiel knows well are nothing but shadows. It’s only by the faint light of the moon glinting from Dean’s eyes that he can tell his friend is focused on him.

“Are you alright?” he wonders.

Dean closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath. “Never thought I’d say this, but I miss actual hunting. I miss my damn room.”

They both release a tired, bleak laugh. As the rain picks up, their attention is drawn to the glass, both of them watching the wiggly streaks of water snake down the surface. It’s so easy to fall into a daze.

An indefinite span of time later, Castiel startles awake. Instant guilt rushes over him, realizing he nodded off in the middle of his watch. Before he can apologize, Dean shushes him quiet.

“You were only out for twenty or so. No worries.”

“Thanks for sticking around.”

“Like I said, no worries.”

Nodding, he turns away from Dean and rests his head against the wall behind him, his eyelids struggling to stay open. For whatever reason, his exhaustion is fighting something else. Some discomfort he can’t place through the fog of being half-asleep. He only puts a name to it when Dean closes a hand around his elbow and pulls. Everything about the touch is hypersensitive.

“What?”

“Lean on my shoulder. I won’t tell anyone.”

Not that Dean’s shoulder promises to be any more comfortable than the wall, but Castiel isn’t wired to say no to the offered proximity. Not when it comes to Dean.

“Thank you.” Without paying it too much attention, he knows why his heart flutters a degree faster than before.

Scooting over another couple inches, he tucks his arms in, draws his knees up and lowers his ear to Dean’s shoulder. The thin shirt is nothing to cushion the hard muscle and bone and it takes a few shifts to get the position just right so that his cheek is taking the brunt of the uncomfortable part. It’s not the first time one of them has ended up using another as a kind of pillow or leaning post, but it’s rare enough that the scent of Dean and the warmth of his body are things he can’t ignore with indifference.

Because Castiel is _not_ indifferent.

As far back as he can recall, it’s always been that way. For the longest time, he didn’t understand. But he does now. The understanding changes nothing, and same as always, he buries the thrum of energy that only ever dominates him when Dean’s near.

“Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Do you wish you’d left with the rest of ‘em?”

Castiel’s glad for the rain because even if any of the others wake in the night, they won’t be able to eavesdrop on the whispered conversation by the door. Moments ago he’d been all set to fall asleep again but now his attention is piqued.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you and Sam are my family,” he answers with the truth.

Dean is silent after that, and Cas closes his eyes once more, adjusting his cheek against Dean’s shoulder.

The rise and fall of his friend’s breathing combined with the _dap-dap-dap_ of the rain on the window throws him into a bizarre state. In the vaguest sense, Castiel’s aware he’s not fully asleep and somehow not fully awake either. The elusive nature of formless dreams shift around the periphery of his thoughts.

He’s pulled deeper towards blackness, sensing the beginning of a hedonistic dream unfold. A hand caresses his knee; he’s ticklish there and can feel a slow smile pull at the corners of his mouth. There’s a murmured rumble that arouses him, blood rushing low, and a clear sense of sweat trickling down the centre of his spine. There’s no clarity to the dream, and though he can feel himself being pushed back onto a hard surface, and a heavy weight pressing on his chest, the face of the one touching him—now, a practiced hand moving up his thigh—is without detail. Like many dreams before, however, he doesn’t need detail to know who’s moving against him in the dream.

“Cas?”

Half still in the dream, a moan escapes and he shifts, expecting to be on his back.

He’s not.

Jolting upright, Castiel whips sideways to stare at Dean. His friend has made a valiant attempt to hide a smirk, but he’s failing.

“Uh,” Dean clears his throat. “What exactly were _you_ dreaming about?” he teases. When Cas opts to say nothing, Dean adds, “Yeah, uh, okay ... So, how about next time you save the naughty dreams for when you’re not sleeping on my shoulder, dude.”

“My apologies,” he grates out, grateful that it’s dark enough to hide the flare of red that burns his cheeks.

“Whatever. At least it wasn’t a wet dream. That would’ve been awkward. Anyway, your time’s up, horndog. I’m gonna wake Ray and then get some shut-eye. You stayin’ out here?”

Castiel would rather sleep in the secluded area of the backroom with the brothers but considering he just had a physically arousing dream basically lying on Dean has made him more than embarrassed.

“Yes, I’ll take Rayna’s spot once she’s up.”

“Suit yourself.” Dean gets up and steps deftly through the dark towards the bar. “Ray?” Dean nudges her as Castiel starts to ease off the floor, pulling his sleeping bag with him. There’s a gruff exchange between Dean and Ray but it’s short, and by the time Cas makes his way over to the bartop, Dean’s already moving through the door on the left.

“You guys do watch together?” she asks, stretching her arms behind her and curving her spine. It has the effect of pushing her breasts out in an obvious way. Even though there’s only a thin white tank covering her torso, her female assets have next to no impact on him.

“Only a few minutes. I mostly slept. May I use your spot while you’re up?”

“Sure thing. If Josh tries to steal it from ya, give him a jab with that knife of yours.” Her voice carries, and from the far side of the room near the hallway, laid out across four tables shoved together, they see Josh lift an arm in the air with a single digit raised from his fist.

Cas climbs up onto the long wood slab and settles onto his back with one arm behind his head. It takes a minute to find a good position, which ends up being with one knee cocked out to the side and his foot tucked under his leg.

As he drifts back to sleep, the scent of Dean, unshowered and raw, lingers in his nose and he takes a steep breath, finding that it comforts him. Dreams come and go in passes while he dozes, indistinct and chaotic in a way that leaves him restless. Endless violence and shouting, a female voice yelling, “Far side! Go!” A black shape that sickens him, blood soaking down the length of a sleeve, and worry. He can’t shake the worry, it’s the hidden emotion that he refuses to let haunt him during the day.

Nearing dawn, the tone of his nocturnal illusions softens to something warm and soft, like the calm at the end of a storm. When the sun begins to pierce his eyelids and slowly drags him away, he realizes he’s dreaming of a bed. Instead of a hard, unforgiving bartop, he’s sinking into a cushion of grey and blue cotton. Though he has no basis for comparison, that big comfortable bed feels like home. Then again, what giant, soft bed wouldn’tfeel like home at this point.

As they hit the road that morning, he has a quick laugh with Sam. “I dreamt that I slept in a very large bed last night.”

The younger Winchester smiles in collusion. “I dreamt that Dean and I were cataloguing the archives at the bunker.”

Dean comes up from behind them and throws his arms around both their shoulders, his head shoving in between them. “Lame. Wanna know what I dreamt about?”

Sam and Cas express definite no’s.

Dean continues anyway. “Having ss _seeex_.” Drawing the last word out, he turns in a sly move to smirk at Cas, an eyebrow raised knowingly.

Aware that he’s being mocked for the first dream he had last night, Castiel rolls his eyes and doubles his pace, leaving Dean behind with his arm hanging down by his side.

 

**  
**


	5. Chapter 5

Damp, rank air puffs against his face. And again.

Exhaustion’s left Dean sluggish, and he refuses to wake, clawing at the depths of sleep. Moving blind, he paws at the space in front of his face, finding nothing but air.

It continues.

“Ugh. The fuck,” he grumbles. Reaching out once more, his fingers skirt across the bumpy slopes of a face, skin warm from sleep.

Cracking one eye to the morning light, he finds Cas barely six inches away. Of all the things he and Sam have taught the guy, personal space was evidently an elusive subject of understanding.

Dammit, Cas.

It takes Dean a long moment to orient himself, his sliver of vision scoping out the orange and yellow tent. Ah, right. Stupid tent. Stupid woods. In the back of his mind, he has a vague recollection of Sam saying he was gonna go hunting with Josh in the morning, and considering where the sun’s at, the boys are probably gone. Ray is banking some Z’s in the nylon humidity prison next to theirs.

Another icky breath tickles across his lips and Dean groans and curses the fact that he can’t punch a tent.

Instead, he shoves at Cas’ chest. “Turn the fuck over, dude! You’re breathing on my face.”

“ _Mmnhg_ ,” Cas murmurs, snuggling into his blue sleeping bag, his mouth parted and his lips dry. There's a burnt-orange pine needle stuck to his forehead. What a friggin’ dork.

Dean leans over, opens his mouth wide and goes, “ _Hhhaaaaa_ ,” in a long, steaming breath. The former angel flinches awake so hard it’s a fucking riot.

Serves ya' right, tent-whore, taking up the whole goddamn space.

“ _Ugh_ —Dean!” Cas punches him in the chest and rolls over, huffing and sighing all the way there. Guy's back asleep in about two minutes flat. Cas, same as Sam and Dean, has the fantastic ability to sleep almost anywhere, at any time, on anything. Dean's proud, if not momentarily envious. Normally, he'd have no problem. But in the woods he always has a rougher time of it.

Wracking his brain, Dean forgets where they are. Somewhere in Wyoming? Feels Wyoming-y, he muses. Hoping for more shut-eye, Dean shoves Cas towards the edge of the tent to give himself more room and flips onto his back. The early morning scurry of forest creatures combined with Cas' light snoring are the sounds that he ultimately drifts off to.

Later, after a breakfast of canned beans and beef jerky, they whip out a map and markup which way to go. It's confirmed that they are, indeed, in Wyoming. Granted, how much do state lines really matter anymore?

Dean's still bushed from the crappy sleep he had and zones out during the convo over breakfast. It wasn't even because of Cas and his gnarly morning breath; Dean's used to sleeping in close quarters with either Sam or the ex-winger. No, it's more the forest-locale that kept him restless.

It's the solid ground, the cold that always creeps up from the earth. It sinks into him and leaves him tossing and turning, the sleeping bag goin' all _swoosh, swoosh_ as he moves. Annoying as a fucking hangnail.

There's a big yawn that cracks from his left and he lazily glances over at Cas. "Didn't sleep well either?"

Cas furrows his brows. "Actually I slept fine, but you keep yawning and it's making me yawn. It's a very odd human thing." The former angel tilts his head, getting all up in his thoughts about the contagiousness of yawns.

Speaking of ... Dean yawns. _Dammit_! Now that Cas has brought it up, he can't fucking stop. With his jaw stretching wide, another yawn forces its way out, and he can feel his stiff muscles begging for a stretch.

"Dean, y’alright?" Sam peers up from across the small campfire still burning from breakfast. Josh has the map unfolded across their legs, both men sitting side-by-side.

Keeping his jaw tight to stifle yet another yawn, Dean answers, "Yeah, just beat. You know I sleep like shit out here."

His younger brother nods and goes back to plotting a line in some direction. South, Dean expects. Rayna is sharpening her blade to his far right and the glint of the metal in the morning light catches his eye.

Dean finds himself staring in a stupor at her light brown hands and the sharp line of the sword for a long while. There's something mesmerizing about it.

"’K, we're heading south-west still," Sam interrupts. "Josh has been through here before. Dean, us too, back in the day. This bit of forest goes pretty far if you remember. About a good day’s hike to the west edge and we should find a few towns in a row there. Let's pack up and head out in an hour. I wanna hit Ashton tomorrow, so we gotta power through."

Rubbing his face, Dean looks up. "Have we passed Yellowstone Lake?"

"Yeah, went north of it yesterday. Why?"

Dean whines, "Dude! We smell like ass—you could'a mentioned something! A dip in the lake would've been awesome!" And sorely needed, he thinks.

" _Dean_. It's October."

" _Pfft_. So what?! I'm sure the water is fine," he challenges.

His brother snorts, lifting a patronizing brow. When was it exactly that Sam slipped into the leadership role? Dean can't remember. Regardless, most days it suits their group dynamic just fine. Today, Dean's hell-bent on getting cleaned up.

"Hey, there's another smaller lake south of us. We'll head that way, and if you want to dive into icy water and lose your nuts up inside your body, then by all means, have at it." Josh chimes in, his voice grittier than Sam's, but not as deep as Dean's. Folding up the map, Josh zips up his thick two-tone grey fleece and smirks at Dean. "Doesn't matter anyway, man, you're not gonna go in. I'd put money on the rest of us diving in before you."

"You callin' me a pansy?" Dean banters, throwing his friend a taunting grin. Sam's quick laugh is just plain rude. "Hey now, who spent forty years in hell, huh? Who spent a year fightin' everything under the crust of the earth in Purgatory? That's right, boys and girls, that'd be me."

Sam's sportin' one of his smiley-frowns that only exists to irk Dean. "Oh, Dean. We're not denying you’re a badass—you totally are. _Except_ when it comes to anything cold. I mean, c'mon, we had, like, one case ever where there was snow."

"That's only because Baby didn't like the cold."

Sam shakes his head. "Sure, Dean."

After it's decided that they'll alter course so Dean can annoy them all by dipping his big toe in the cold-ass lake, he heads off to pack his stuff and help Cas take the tent apart. It's an expensive pop-up. Light and small, and easy to carry. Dean had it the day before so he straps the bundle to Cas' pack now, feeling sorry for the guy. It's fair, but Dean’s still bigger and stronger, despite having to ration enough.

A couple hours later, the sun filtering through the near-naked trees and warming them as they walk, a clearing becomes noticeable beyond the vertical brown lines of the forest.

It's just warm enough that Dean can see them all consider it. Cause, yeah, they effin' stink. Like, actual, funk-worthy smells; a level of B-O to rival a full dive in the deep south full of truckers and dudes who eat hamburgers every day.

Growing damn giddy, and somewhat egged on from earlier, Dean throws his bag to the ground and starts stripping. He doesn't think twice that Rayna will see his junk and white-ass. Because: Hells Yeah Water!And it ain't nothin' she hasn't seen before.

The others are in a mixed state of laughing and grumbling from his actions as he hastily trips out of the last of his clothes.

"C'mon ya bunch of pussies!" Dean hollers back, dancing his way over sharp twigs and rocks to the edge of the water, his bare feet hitting the chilled, damp earth. Shit, this water's probably gonna be pret-ty damn icy.

Taking the only suitable option, Dean jumps without thinking twice.

_Baaahhhhh!!!!!_

" _Fuuuuuck!!!_ Mother of _CHRIST_ that’s cold! Oh my God! _Ah-h-h_ , my nuts!" he yells, curses, and flails in the water. But remarkably, within the few seconds it takes for him to kick his way towards the shore, he finds it's actually not totally horrible and forces himself to swim around in the deep blue depths.

Ignoring the goosebumps that have popped up all over his skin, he smiles up at everyone standing near the shore. “See? It’s perfect.”

Josh and Sam trade a look. “You screamed like a little girl,” teases Sam.

“Oh, fuck you all.” Ducking under the water, Dean scrubs his dirty mug and rakes his fingers through his greasy hair. When he resurfaces, the crisp air and sun feel spectacular on his freshly scrubbed skin.

Despite the banter, it takes little time after that for the other guys to join him, butt-naked also. By the time Sam cannonballs into the lake, Ray is chortling off to the side, no doubt finding it totally hilarious how dumb they all look, with their white asses flaunted, and soon, shriveled up cocks from the frigid lake.

He and Sam taught Cas to swim the previous summer—lakes were a preferred place to get clean. Both for their bodies and their clothes. Every few towns they'd dump clothes that were worn and grab new ones if they could, but in between that they needed to find ways to keep decent.

Teaching an angel to swim had been one heck of an experience.

Watching Cas drop like a stone at first had gotten him laughing so hard he was tearing up. Sam, on the other hand, hadn't found this quite as funny—given that he was the one to dive down and pull up a flailing and sputtering ex-angel. But after a few hours, they'd managed the seemingly impossible.

And now, Cas is expertly doing the breaststroke towards the middle of the lake, bigger than it appeared on the map. For a brief moment he's apprehensive but shoves it off knowing his tendencies to over-worry.

The sun is high and Dean finds a large rock to lie on as the others continue to enjoy the refreshment of the crisp water. Rayna trods over, not caring an ounce for his blunt nudity.

He squints as he angles his face upwards, throwing a hand over to shield his eyes from the sharpness of the sun. "Look, I'm not tryin' to be suggestive or anything but I saw an inlet over there," he points, "so if you wanna get clean without our gawking all over ya, walk over there and you'll have some privacy."

She stares down at him. Curiously, her gaze travels south for a fleeting second but even he can tell there's no interest there. Hell, she's probably just laughing at the size cause, _shit_ , he's cold. Dicks and icy waters don’t go well together.

Finally her eyes meet his, they narrow as she reads him. "Thanks?"

"Don't trust me at all, do you?"

"Dean Winchester? Not even a little."

Despite her words, she gives him a rare genuine smile. Funny that he prefers her harder exterior—the softer version of Ray would only have him worrying more.

She heads off towards the thicker woods, stepping over low shrubs, heading in the direction he sent her. It's probably one of the most pleasant conversation they've had. And he'd been naked.

Huh. Dean’s upstairs brain spends a moment considering the idea of ever hooking up with her. Bad idea, definitely. But it would probably be along the lines of angry fucking. The good kind of disastrous clashing of bodies.

Hmm, it’s probably best to stop thinking about sex considering he’s ass-naked.

Alone by the side of the lake, Dean scans the expanse of water and sees Sam floating on the top. As the giant is flashing junk, Dean quickly leaves that disgusting view and searches for Cas instead.

His eyes catch Josh first, knife in hand, no doubt trying to snag a fish. What an idiot. Dean recants the jibe immediately, remembering the man's supreme hunting skills. _Shit_. That fucker will probably stab a fish. Damn, that's wicked.

There's a half-second of panic when he can't locate the dark head of hair he's searching for, but it bobs up on the surface, hair slicked back and wet, the sun glinting off it. Castiel wipes the water from his face and starts treading water. There's a big smile on his stupid face as he turns it up to the sun overhead. The hazy yellow rays lay bright across his cheeks, and reflections from the water's surface dance over his neck and shoulders. The whole picture seems to slow Dean’s heart-rate.

A grin spreads across his face, casually watching the guy pedal through the water. It's peaceful like this. Where they can forget the world is over.

God, he would love to live in that delusion. Unfortunately, they’re left with nothing but decaying infrastructure. There's no more economy. No more production of goods—a terrifying reality. Dean imagines one day they'll need to learn how to garden or some shit. Sure, they've had to kill Bambi's mom like Bobby taught 'em long ago, but hunting is hunting. It's second nature to most of them. Creating life from seeds, on the other hand, is definitely not. Dean doesn't think he'll ever have the patience for it. Seems more like a Cas or Sam thing anyway.

It's only when Castiel's shifting gaze finds its way to him, their eyes locking, that Dean realizes he hasn't stopped watching. They share something then; a passing appreciation for their friendship, for this moment, this day in an otherwise awful life. But it's gone as quick as it came and he gets up, heading over to his bag for the thin towel he keeps there. Wrapping and tucking it quickly around his waist, he walks over to his brother climbing up onto the rocky shoreline.

"We should get going soon," Sam announces, reaching down for his own towel to cover himself. His hair is dripping like a dog all over the place. Christ man, you need to cut that shit, Dean thinks offhand.

"Look, I was thinking maybe we could stay here," Dean suggests. "It's a frigging awesome day, our clothes need washing anyway…" He trails off, letting the hint of sudden desperation for the continuation of this day seep through his voice.

Sam frowns, looking off to the west. "Thought you didn’t like sleeping in the woods?"

"I don't. But I'll trade a crappy night’s sleep for a day like this. We don't get many of 'em. And seriously, man, our shit needs to get washed. Like you said, it's October, and it'll take us some time to get to warmer climates moving southwest, I think we need to Carpe Diem, ya feel me?"

At the end of the speech, his younger brother turns up to the postcard blue sky. The sun's shining off the wetness in his long hair, which he shakes and sinks a hand through to get it away from his eyes. He finally looks back at Dean. "Yeah, alright. We'll spend the night here, I guess."

Part of him knows Sam’s in need of the extra rest, anyway. Sammy would never say it, always stuck on motoring along until he crashes. Kid was always that way. Dean’s found sly ways of keeping the guy whole and functioning.

The day is spent washing their stuff and setting up for another night, even though they've barely traveled that day. Everyone's happy for the unexpected stay. Sometime close to dusk, Dean has a few gulps of the whiskey Cas had found and tromps off into the woods for badly needed " _Dean_ " time.

Partway between picturing a hot blonde blowing him, and his fist pumping his cock on the far side of a wide tree, he's interrupted—

"Dean?"

The fuck, dude? "Cas? Seriously!? _Really_ not a good time, man."

His friend sounds several feet off and thankfully Dean’s shielded by the girth of a tree. Moving with purpose now, he takes the opportunity to attempt completion, jerking faster, the picture fading from his mind to be replaced by nothing but the slowly darkening woods.

"Sam sent me to check on you, thinks he heard something." The light thuds of Cas' footfalls moving closer break his concentration.

Goddammit!

"Motherfuck, Cas! Just let me finish! Nothing is going to attack me while I'm gettin' off!" At least, they fucking better not.

The guy scoffs, but mercifully, the sound of his steps cease. "Perhaps. Regardless, I'll wait."

Rolling his eyes but determined, Dean avoids looking into the suspicious shadows around him and keeps stroking, focusing on the feel of his steady fist. Except now he can't clear his damn head. All he can picture is some dirtbag monster trying to snuff him while he's cleaning the pipes. Assholes…

Focus, Dean. _Focus_.

Hot, sexy, naked ladies. Hot, sexy, naked ladies. Soft breasts ... _Hmm, yeah_. Thick blonde hair. Blue eyes, _dark_ blue eyes. Smooth, tanned skin. Oh yeah, warm, hard thighs maybe wrapping around his hips. Grabbable ass. Full lips ... Nice wet slit. Legs spreading wide, his cock sinking deep.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. There we go. " _Mmmph…_ "

Dean strokes harder, a little rougher with impatience to reach that finish line, trying to clamp down on those uneven breaths he can't quite control the closer he gets. Common decency, of course. And besides, after years of sharing a room with Sam, he's decent enough at stifling moans and ragged breaths. For the finale, he imagines himself driving hard into hot, slick tightness; imagines short nails scraping his hips, blue eyes intense on him, pupils blown out—

_Fuck!_

And he's over the goal line, choking off a hard pant as he pumps himself dry; come hitting the dark earth in muted splats. In the silence that follows, his breaths slowing and the area growing eerily silent, he feels that same gut-feeling he's sure Sam was gettin’ when he'd sent Cas off to check on him. Something doesn't feel right. And it's not just the cooling sheen of sweat on his skin.

He tucks away and does up his jeans, trying to avoid Cas' smartass stare as he rounds the tree and walks the ten feet of shame. Trying to counter the flush on his cheeks and the thought of Cas having silently stood there and waited, he smiles wide.

"Get any pointers while you hung around, ya' creep?" he asks, patting Cas on the back, scanning his eyes around them for movement.

"I know how to masturbate, Dean," his friend tightly replies, handing Dean a gun to partner the knife he's already got in hand.

"Gotta disagree, buddy. You _never_ do it ... which clearly means you suck at it. Cause if you knew how to get yourself off you'd be doing exactly that at every—"

His words are cut short by the sound of rustling and two distinct thuds off in the distance. They come to a stop, guns and knives gripped in stiff hands.

In the moment of pause, they listen for more, but after five minutes of nothing they keep walking. Slowly this time, and without further conversation.

Back at the camp, things are tense. In the end, the night passes by uneventful, but they all sleep like shit anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

"Sammy, pass me the Ruger," Dean asks as they chow down an early breakfast at the ass-crack of dawn.

Sam reaches back to the tree behind him where their collective guns are propped. With a half-a-Pop-tart held in his mouth, Sam hands it over quietly and continues choking down the dry pastry.

Josh nudges Dean's boot. "Huntin' a bit before we clear out?"

Digging into the side pockets of his bag for ammo, Dean shrugs. "Yeah, I think we had some bears close by last night. Pretty sure that's the thuds I heard, wouldn'a been infected. Too heavy. Figure maybe we can get some meat. It's a worth a shot anyway."

"I'll take the .22 and check out the lake. Maybe some ducks are still around if we're lucky."

Stomping out the remnants of the small fire, Dean and Sam trek off north-east from their campsite. It's backtracking from yesterday but given the topography, they both agree they'll have their best chance.

Josh solos the duck hunt considering it's less than a mile from the site. Cas and Ray hang back to pack up and get them ready. If their hopes are to make it to Ashton by tomorrow morning so they have a full day to check things out, they only have a couple hours or so to hunt.

They follow along the top bank of a stream. Tall, narrow evergreens scatter the landscape, their dense clusters breaking apart as the land slopes towards the creek. Under their boots, the earth is dry-packed this late in the season. The temperature dropped overnight and the blades of grass along the slope are glistening with frost.

Dean can't help but let out a soft groan. Winter is coming and he hopes they make good time heading west. Sam wasn't wrong before, Dean fucking hates the snow. It's cold and wet. People lose toes, cars don’t start, road salt rusts the shit out of everything. It’s bullshit weather and he sure as hell doesn’t want to get stuck in it.

They don't have a need for conversation, and as they move along Dean loads the rifle and pockets the leftover rounds. After roughly forty minutes, they come across a mass of forest garbage consisting of fallen, dry-rotted trees, moss covered brush, and the remnants of what might've once been a tree stand but it’s nothing more than slats of old wood lain against the thick mound of nature's excrement. Over the side of the hump, the form of the landscape slopes towards a steep ravine, and the trees are sparse enough on the far side that the sightlines are decent.

Climbing over the debris, their movements disturb the organic decay and the scent of earthy rot swills up towards them. Dean grimaces as he settles into position, taking note of the scurrying he sees over bits of broken bark. _Eehk_.

Glancing to his right, Sam's eyebrows are up, silently judging Dean with a dry look at the way he's gingerly holding himself off the ground as best he can.

"I don't want things crawling inside my clothes," whispers Dean defensively.

"How you ever withstood torture is beyond me."

"Oh, shove it, Mr. Clowns-make-me-pee-my-pants."

Sam's expression flattens out to wholly unamused. Dean smirks and sets himself up for the long-haul.

In less than ten minutes, which is a damn miracle, Dean sights a lumbering grizzly making his way through the trees. It always amazes him how quiet they can be. Dean's aiming the .308, slowing his breathing, when the bear stops and the delicate noises of the forest flat-line.

A nudging poke on his arm and Dean looks over to see Sam nodding further east.

Fuck. The slightest glimpse through the trees confirms they aren't alone.

Not wanting to lose an opportunity, Dean quickly sights off again and fires. A split-second before the gun cracks through the air, the bear spooks. Dean clips it right in the tail-end of its ass as the thing’s pounding off in the other direction. Unfortunately, no ass-shot like that is enough to take the beast down. And besides, they've got other worries now.

The body they'd seen has taken cover. "Shit."

"Survivor?" asks Sam.

How's he supposed to know? "Probably not." Dean hands over the gun and slips the machete out of its sheath by his thigh. "I'm gonna go take a look."

"Yep."

Slipping back down the insect-ridden mound, Dean makes his way down the ravine, ducking from tree to tree, needing them as leverage as he descends.

Twenty feet inward on the opposite side, Dean picks up on a soft rustle about thirty paces ahead. Raising the blade in his hand, he turns towards the spot he just left and motions to Sam so his brother knows where to look.

As he gets closer, a faint noise confuses him. Before, he’d heard thrashing, but now there's just a soft wet slurp reaching his ears.

There we are...

On the far side of two closely spaced Douglas Firs, he can make out the arch of a man's back. Wincing, Dean steps sideways as gently as possible. It's that extra couple feet that he needs to get the full picture.

The vampire, or so he gathers, is curled over a twitching fox. Damn, poor little furry dude. Dean grouses and shakes out his arm from stiffness, fist gripping the handle of his machete.

"Havin' yourself a little treat, are ya?"

The vamp spins around, mouth slackened in shock and running over with blood. It doesn't bother to speak and snarls instead.

It launches itself towards Dean, no doubt hoping for a much better snack, but Dean's quicker and well-trained. The machete swings up and across, cutting through the vamp's throat in a clean, sick line. But it doesn't cut the full way through, and the head kind of dangles backwards as the body crunches to the earth.

Dean sticks his tongue out, mock-gagging at the image. " _Blehk_." In one quick motion, he severs it the rest of the way. So much for bear. And there's no way in hell he's eating fox that’s been sucked on by a vamp.

As Dean's straightening up, two zip-quick shots startle him. Dean dashes back the way he came to find two infected dead at the top slope of the ravine on his side. He can barely make out Sam's shape over the ridge but salutes anyway and hikes back.

They return to the camp empty handed. "One bear, one fox, one vamp, and two dead creepers, and a big fat zilch for us."

Cas grasps his shoulder. "Everyone has off days, Dean." The former angel points to Josh and his two ducks.

"Hey, I shot that bear," Dean argues.

"In the ass," Sam tacks on, chuckling.

That gets Ray going, of course. It irks him how much she loves stickin' it to him. Not that he'll stop doing the same, mind you.

"You're all so hilarious. And you"—Dean points the machete at Cas—"I found you popcorn the other day!"

"And I found liquor for _you_. That's worth some meat, don't you think?"

Dean shakes his head, quirking the corner of his lip. "I'll give you some meat alright." Holding the blade outward, he pokes Cas in the chest. "Huh?"

Sam heaves a great big sigh. "My god, you two. Five year olds ... I swear. Let's get going."

They head off towards the west, their moods drifting back to calm and moderately alert. The hike before them is a solid day and night journey and it’s undecided if they'll stop along the way or not.

Fifteen hours later they're on a hard-packed dirt road motoring along at night. The wind is up and it kills the sound of potential threats, so they're all a little more ready-for-action than usual. After the hunt that morning, finding a vamp, a bear, and two creepers so easily isn't exactly a good sign.

They're approaching a causeway when movement on the far side catches their collective attention.

Dean whistles low and gestures for Josh and Sammy to take the right. He and Cas shift towards the other side while Ray grins and takes center.

Nearing halfway, and realizing the threat's only four infected shuffling around like unwracked pool balls, Cas stops, his arm snaking out to catch Dean at the elbow. When Dean turns back to see what's holding him up, Cas isn't looking his way.

Instead, his fixed stare is lowered to the rocks shored up against the side of the bridge.

The moon is bright in the sky that night, the wind having cleared resting clouds, and faintly, Dean can make out the familiar pattern of an angel's wings. Their black fossilized shape is stretched across the jagged rocks, though there's no body nearby. It's one sight they haven't yet come across the last two years. For all they knew, all the angels had jumped ship.

All except one.

Obviously Cas' reaction is suddenly Dean's concern and he watches his friend breathe deep and mutter something monosyllabic; Enochian words he's never heard before.

"C'mon, Cas," he whispers. Taking hold of the loose fabric of his coat, his finger snagging the gaping hole at the elbow, Dean pulls his friend along.

At the end of the low bridge, they clear-cut the infected, leaving their bodies moved off to the side. While they continue walking, Dean tells the others what they saw.

"Cas, you alright?" asks Sam, slowing his pace to be closer to the former angel's side.

"It was unexpected. I'm fine."

There's no more suitable occasion, and Dean drops his bag and takes out the liquor. He holds it out to Cas. "Down a shot or two and let’s keep on keepin' on."

Blank of expression, Cas nods and grabs the neck of the bottle. Unlike the first time, he sucks back on the thing with the ease of an experienced alcoholic.

"Atta boy." Dean takes it back, caps it, and buries it in his bag once more.

The rest of the walk until daybreak is sombre, and more than once Dean's reminded how far gone the world is. Everywhere they go, all they seem to find is death and ruin. There's no hope for something good. Though he's prattled on more than once that he's hellbent on going out of life the same way he's lived it, hard and unforgiving, a shred of something in him is at odds with this. Dean doesn't truly believe it's anything more than the leftovers from an expired desire for an apple pie life. It's been years since he's had any hope for that.

There's a tangible grief that radiates from Cas, walking a few paces ahead. Dean can't decide whether the emotion is tied to the loss of his brethren, or his own angelic status. Either way, Dean lengthens his gait and presses his palm against the middle of Cas' back in the spot between his shoulder blades. He won't cheapen the gesture with his words; they wouldn't do a damn bit of good.

Cas hardly registers the closeness with a quick glance to the side. Giving a quick rub across his back, Dean lets go with a pat and turns his face to the stretch of road in front of them.

No doubt life could be worse.

But thinking ahead on all the shitty nights' sleeps, the blood, and dirt, and, _god_ , the fatigue that awaits them, it doesn't exactly fill Dean with warm, tingly feelings.

 

**  
**


	7. Chapter 7

The black shape of wings follow Castiel through the night, and he has a difficult time keeping pace and ends up straggling behind. Of any of his friends that could’ve slowed their stride to walk beside him, he’s glad that it’s Dean. Even if they say nothing the whole night, he appreciates the matched set of footsteps beside him.

It reminds him of a poem that he’d heard once. Something about the lord walking beside man. Where is our Father now? Castiel wonders. Maybe the world doesn’t need God, but turning to see Dean’s exhaustion in the lines of his face, Castiel is certain the world needs hope.

More than an hour has passed since crossing the causeway but for whatever reason the progress feels slower than it should. Whenever his gait slackens, he’s sure that if he turned to look over his shoulder, the harsh sight would still splay across his retinas. A reminder of his past, a reminder that they’re all gone. Either dead or might as well be.

“Dean?” he whispers to his friend.

Absorbing his mood, Dean leans close to him. “What’s up, Cas?”

“I feel ... uncharacteristically morose. I don’t like it. Tell me something ... _anything_ to get my mind off of it. Please.”

With a dirty hand, Dean wipes across his jaw; the coarse hair creating a whispered _ksshh_ in the quiet night. “Geez, you’re not givin’ me much to work with here, Cas.” Dean huffs and then prattles his lips as he thinks. “Fuck. You want a story?”

A story? Yes, that would do. Any one of Dean’s stories would almost certainly capture his attention. And if not, Dean’s voice would surely do the trick. “Please,” he asks.

“Stories, huh. Alright then. Categories to choose from are: Blood and guts, uh ... tricky monster kills, embarrassing Sam stories—my personal fav, bones I’ve broken and how, and finally, the great sexcapades of Dean Winchester. Unfortunately I’m a bit low on the happy tales, but I’ll do my best.” Dean turns to him and smiles, his eyes light in spite of the shadows.

The offered genres amuse Cas and he immediately (albeit mentally) strikes off the sexual adventures. Hearing Dean explicitly go on about all those he’s fucked would only piss him off. Not that Dean knows this. Grinning, Cas answers with a low voice, “Embarrassing Sam stories. Can’t go wrong there.”

Dean laughs, his body turning sideways as he walks to face Cas straight on. “Good choice, man. Good choice. Okay ... Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. Let’s see.” Dean scrunches his nose and his eyes turn upwards as he thinks. “Ah! Perfect story. You ever hear of something called a fear boner?”

Okay, not exactly where Cas thought Dean would start off. The term is fairly self-explanatory and he does nothing more than raise his eyebrows at Dean, a subtle: Where are you going with this one?

A snort-chuckle bursts out of Dean, and he wipes across his mouth. “Fuckin’ hilarious. Alright, so we’re young. Maybe, I don’t know, I was about fifteen, so Sam woulda been eleven or whatever. I mean, at eleven true, Sammy was probably poppin’ wood over every damn thing—God knows I was at that age. _Anyway_ , we’re taking him on his first witch hunt and Dad’s there giving instructions before we go in and everyone’s got their weapons and we start movin’ in. The place these whackjobs were holed up in was some social community housing just outside of Detroit.

“Dad goes in first, Sammy next, and then me. We spread out, okay, and I follow Sammy, letting ’im take the lead. This fucking”—Dean breaks off and laughs—“hotass blonde chick with blue streaks in her hair grabs for Sam, spewin’ some voodoo garbage and his eyes go all wide. I mean, I’m there, I’m worried too, but I’ve got my knife and I’ve got a clear attack on her. I rush forward as she’s got Sam up off the floor ‘cause the kid weighed next to nothin’ back then, and I shove Sammy out of her grip and get to killin’.

“The murderous witch goes down, Sam’s just pulling himself off the floor when Dad comes in to say the coast is clear for the rest of the place and-and”—Dean’s off chuckling again, his whispered huffs muffled quick by his fist—“the kid stands straight and he’s tenting his freaking hand-me-down jeans and Dad and I just bust over laughing. We know of course. It happens once in a while. Not anymore, of course. Cause fuck, there ain’t much left in this world that would scare me all the way back to horny. Hell kinda took the cake on that one. Anyway, poor kid’s about ten shades of mortified, and Dad and I are just laughin’ our asses off. Sam was so pissed we’d made fun of him, he wouldn’t talk to me for the whole seventeen hour drive to the next hunt. Fuckin’ kid.”

Dean abruptly goes silent, the joy in his face softened and muted. “Man, I miss the old days, that’s for sure.”

“Would you go back if you could?”

Dean seems to mull on that. “ _Eeeh_ , nah. There are a lot of things that suck some serious ballsac now, no two ways about it. But back then I didn’t have you as a best friend, now did I? And c’mon, look at all this, the world is ours. Sort of.” Dean tries to grin, but it’s half-assed and he says, “Look, man, since you’re normally the chipper one and me the downer, we’ll switch roles for tonight and I’ll be the one to say that it will all get better, Cas. And if it takes us a while to get there, we’ll just chug down some of that whiskey and shoot some fucking Raiders between the eyes. How’s that sound?”

Castiel shakes his head. Dean always manages to lighten his heart, give his mind a moment’s peace. He wonders if Dean’s aware of the power he holds over his emotions. All in a few moments, he’s managed to wipe away the anguish and replace it with the bittersweet joy of watching Dean laugh. Ultimately, he replies, “Sounds great. And thank you, Dean. I’ll be sure to make fun of Sam for the fear-boner incident.”

Dean pulls a face, his mouth pinching to one side. “Oooh, I wouldn’t do that. If he knows I’ve dropped a story like that, he’ll go and do the same. Nuh-uh. You keep your damn mouth shut or you’re gettin’ no more stories from me, buddy.”

 _Buddy_. The word leaves an annoying discomfort somewhere inside of him. Same as any other unwanted reaction to Dean, he shoves it back and ignores it. Not because he’s in denial but because it’s pointless. “Fine. I won’t say a word.”

“Good deal.”

The remainder of the night passes at glacier speed. Over the course of the miles from where they began to the town of Ashton, the space between them has lengthened. Sam is off ahead with Josh, and Ray’s walking solo a few yards ahead of him and Dean.

They’re making their way around the edge of a thick swell of land, the highway hugging around the base of it and edging up on a steep incline when the sun begins to lighten the horizon. The beginning of it is a deep orange with a hint of pink. It’s breathtaking. Swallowing his nerves, Castiel turns to his right and catches the light as it hits Dean’s irises. The golden ray meets the streaks of green and all sorts of new shades are revealed to him. A second before Dean notices his blatant staring, he whips his head around to face the road. A steep breath draws into his lungs and he tries to reset his heart.

When will this feeling subside, or dissipate? Should it not dwindle over time? No matter how many times he reminds himself of the lost cause of it all, his heart is steadfast and unwavering. Dean looks at him, and the organ picks up pace the way it might when he’s faced with a threat.

Then again, perhaps the distinction isn’t so very different.

Dean is, indeed, a threat of some kind. A threat to his sanity, and moreover, a threat to his heart-health. Being human now, he should probably be mindful of his body’s well-being.

Rays of the sun splash across his vision, and he squints and chews against his lip. Suddenly, he needs space, away from Dean. Doubling his stride, Cas distances himself from his friend, muttering something quick about getting a bout of energy. “Better take advantage of it,” he says. Moving along at a good beat, Cas only slows when Rayna’s there on his left.

“Winchester annoying you?” she asks. Rayna truly harbors a dislike for Dean. It’s ironic.

“No, of course not.” Not in the way she means. “The rising sun has given me some extra energy and I figured I’d capitalize on it. Besides, I’m sure you could use some company.”

The woman feigns indifference as she tends to do. “Not usually. But you’re a nice one, so I’ll make an exception.” With that she looks over and smiles wide. She is, without question, stunning. If Castiel wasn’t already overloaded with affections for a certain brazen man about twenty paces back, he might be drawn to her. Only a few inches shorter than he is, Ray still maintains a dominant presence. She carries herself with certainty of strength and an unapologetic arrogance that he’s partial to. No real surprise there.

“I hope you’re aware that the animosity between you and Dean is entirely rooted in the fact that you both have very similar personalities.” And trust me, I should know, he thinks. Not that his heart ever skips a beat where Ray’s concerned, but he catches the way both her and Dean are excessively stubborn, the precise and brutal way they fight, the similar smirks they unleash on people.

“ _Please_! Dean’s an ass.” She turns to Cas, an eyebrow raised, begging him to argue her on it.

Grinning off to the side, Cas whispers, “You can be at times as well.” Everyone has it in them to be rude and harsh.

Ray looks over and seems to assess everything about him in a few short seconds. “Fine. So I can be a bitch. It’s served me well so far.”

“I’m not a fan of the word bitch,” he tells her. “You’re not a ... _bitch_ , Ray. Your personality simply has a few sharp edges. Same as Dean.”

Putting up a shrug, she says, “Whatever you say, angel. I’ve known hunters like Dean, and I didn’t like them before this mess, and I don’t care for them now. You always seem willing to give that Winchester a pass.”

Cas finds no argument for that. “Maybe. I agree that he has his faults. But, don’t we all? You’re excessively harsh on him sometimes.”

For some reason, his words have the effect of Rayna slowing her pace. She looks at him, eyebrows pinched close. “Yes, I am. Dean hooked up with my cousin years ago, and took off the next morning without a word.”

Unfortunately, that does sound like Dean. Cas turns away and avoids saying anything in Dean’s defense.

“Exactly,” quips Ray, turning forward with a smug expression.

“As I’ve said, Dean has faults. I’m sorry he hurt your cousin.”

Ray snorts and throws her hands up like he isn’t getting it. “That’s not even the point. One badly played one night stand is fine. But he’s led a lifetime of fucking around—which is fine by me so long as you’re honest about it. Dean wasn’t. He’d stupidly assumed that another hunter, like my cousin Arie, would automatically know a hook-up was no more than a hook-up. She’d liked him for years at that point and then a few years ago they take on a ghoul together and he does his thing and hits the road.”

Castiel presses his lips together and decides to keep quiet for the remainder of the walk, moving along silently beside her. Countless women that Dean’s slept around with. It’s annoying that he’s jealous.

At sporadic points during the rest of their walk, he swears he can feel Dean staring at the back of his head. But he brushes it off as wishful imagination.


	8. Chapter 8

****

Ashton is a small town. They make it there late in the morning, probably close to ten judging by the sun. The east edge of town greets them with abandoned farms and an aging high school. Past the school, they have to bust through steel gates—likely set up at the outset of this whole mess.

As they reach the center of the little settlement, what do you know? There's a 'Main' drive. Damn, even in its high days, there is no way this was ever a happening place. Its main strip consists of gas stations and boring flat storefronts. It resembles the kinda place Stephen King would set novels in. In one word: Creeptacular. Dean half expects to see a tumbleweed roll and bounce across the cracked pavement.

The day is early enough and they break up to find food in forgotten vending machines. Before Dean can ask Sam to come with, his younger brother is already walking off with Ray. _Alright then._ Dean turns to Cas and Josh and gestures them both to follow his lead.

The three of them go for what looks to be a simpleton's hardware store. Dean searches behind the checkout for a gun but it's already been swiped, an empty box of rounds sits open in the till. Funny, there's cash in the drawer, a good hundred bucks. Dean snags it, cause fuck, if nothing else, its decent kindling.

"Who wants to hit up Vegas?" Dean calls out, waving the bills in his hand. Josh and Cas throw him a look and continue rummaging.

That first stop they rack up a few useful items: Duct tape, dolla-dolla bills ya'll, some rags, a new canvas jacket for Josh, who's been having to deal with a shitty fleece. The dirty-blond maintains he loves it, but when Dean handed the new garment over, it wasn't rejected. In the basement, they'd stumbled across an old box of cash-candy and mini-chip bags.

The loot is bagged and they're moving along to the next store, and then the next, and the next. Most places are beyond useless, and whatever food had once been around is long gone. Judging by the looks of the main drag, Dean suspects they'll eventually get to a bar and he's hoping they come across some more booze.

They stop for a quick bite of Twizzlers and Ms. Vicki's, a lunch to rival that of a six-year olds, and when they're standing to move on, Josh breaks away in the opposite direction.

"Where're you off to?" asks Dean.

"Place seems fairly dead and I gotta do some business, I'll meet up with you guys later." Business these days is obviously not a trip to the bank, but more of a squat somewhere. It’s real classy.

Dean makes sure the guy’s decently weaponized before he lets him head off to do his thing. He and Cas move up the sidewalk to the next place. Their boots are loud on the concrete and the overhang shadows some of the piercing sun overhead. The store they stop in front of has no signs to identify its former vocation, but inside they find clothes, blankets, and housewares. Moving away from Cas, but reminding him to look for a new pack if they've got 'em, Dean searches out the offices and breakrooms of the place.

There happens to be a small room with a fridge and some cupboards. After thorough rummaging, he's got a half-eaten bag of peanuts, tea-bags, instant coffee, and a dead rat. He leaves the desiccated rat on the counter.

Definitely not that hungry yet.

Dean hugs the jar of instant coffee before he shoves it into his bag. “Oh, I’ve missed you. Later on baby, we’ll get some boiling water and have a good time.”

“Who the hell are you talking to?” Cas calls from down the hall.

“No one,” he fires back.

“Perhaps I should’ve been clearer. _What_ are you talking to?”

“Smartass. I found a jar of instant.”

From the front room, he hears Cas moan the way a man does when there’s a mouth wrapped around his dick. My god, did that have to sound so gratuitously sexual?

“Mmmm. Can’t wait for that.”

“Christ, get a room,” mutters Dean. “Yo! I’m gonna go check out the rest of this place.”

Forcing his mind back on the scavenger hunt, Dean heads left out of the room, hoping to find a storage area or loading dock. The receiving area is nothing but an extra big vestibule by the back door. He opens the thick steel door to find a brick wall with a metal ladder on his immediate right and an open, concrete platform to the left. But that's not what catches his attention. There's sound nearby. Muffled shuffling, and it's getting louder—

"— _Holy fuck!_ " Dean shrieks, leaping out of the doorway and grabbing onto the ladder attached to the wall. The door slams hard behind him—he hopes to god it locked. Because moving fast in his direction is a huge fuckload of infected who’ve all seen his very much non-diseased and tasty ass.

They're scuffling towards the building, some already trying to mount the platform. He's halfway up the back of the three-storey building, praying they don't try for the door. There's three on the platform by the time he reaches the top. He hauls ass across the roof, a continuous string of flattops that stretch down the whole block, only the occasional access and mechanical rooms break up the flat expanse. He tries the one door on this building, rattling the handle and yelling, "Cas!! Josh!! Come open the damn door!"

Wrenching back hard, Dean grunts. He tries the damn locked steel once more, but with a glance over his shoulder, he can see matted, dirty heads creeping over the ladder— _Fuck, they can climb!?_

Dean's running again, only to be startled as three drooling bodies launch at him from behind an air-cooling unit. Their skin looks burnt red and blistered, one of their clawing grips just barely scrapes his arm. The nasty sound of their gurgly breathing is much too close for comfort.

"Fuck, fuck!! _CAS_!!!" Dean screams, both for warning and help. How had they missed all these guys? And why the hell had the main strip been totally clear, when there's practically hordes behind the rows of buildings?

 _Goddammit_. Dean remembers suddenly. Those damn gates!

When Z-day had kicked off, military and the National Guard had battened down the hatches, and the way the centre of town is set up, it would've been easy enough to create a barricade. The exact front door they'd broken through a few hours ago.

With his feet slamming against the roof deck, blisters start to form, his socks chafing and bunching inside his boots.

"Oh mother of hell!" he yells after a brief glimpse over his shoulder to see a goddamned crowd running after him across the endless stretch of roof. They're all too close for him to take a breather and try to bust through one of these doors. Maybe with help he could, but not alone.

He's a good runner, could run for a while yet. But where to? In circles?

_Oh, Hell no._

Near the front lip of the roof, facing the street, a branch of the infected have altered course. You'd think they were smart motherfuckers. Cornering him off towards the short side at the end of this row.

There's a snarl behind him and it's closer than he expects. Running crooked, Dean reaches down and yanks the gun from his thigh holster. He's racing past another mechanical room when one cuts out in front of his path. Dean fires off a shot. Jumping over the fallen infected, he chances a glance back, his eyes flare wide as one rotting, dead-but-alive corpse stretches for him, his heart pounding, he leaps—

— _Oh, shit!_

Dean hits air, freefalling with a stomach-lurching weightless terror as he soars downwards. In a fraction of a second, he knows it's not high enough to kill him—but high enough that it's gonna fucking hurt.

_Crunch._

"Aahhh!!” Fuckfuckfuck… “Son of a _BITCH_!! Mmnghm, fuck … th _aaahh_ t hurts.”

Hissing and cursing, Dean cradles the limb, screwing his eyes shut against the pain. Okay, he should try to move. Here we go… Bracing his arms on the weedy asphalt, Dean—

“Fuck _me!_ ”

Cancel _that_ plan.

Besides, it might not be a clean break. Best not to jostle things up. Especially given the dangly ankle he’s got goin’ on. New plan: Staying the fuck put.

Rushing air draws his head up.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Infected are flinging themselves idiotically off the building, landing in broken heaps not two feet away. Jesus Christ! Cancel Plan B of not moving. Back to Plan A, otherwise known as Ow-Motherfucker.

Biting down against the pain, he starts to drag himself when something grabs his shoulders—

"—The fuck off!" Dean scrambles, panic gripping his heart.

"Dean, hey! It's me!" Sam shoves his hands under Dean’s armpits and heaves him up.

Annnnd there goes all the blood circulating through his brain.

Somehow, Sam drags him along. Which is impressive, as the world is totally sideways. God, it hurts to move.

Suddenly Dean remembers what he’d been doing—and who he’d been with—before grabbing that ladder.

"Cas? Where's Cas? Did you see him? Shit, they’re everywhere, Sammy."

"Fuck, I know! C’mon. Cas is with Josh, he's fine. He heard you and took off to get help." Sam’s voice is loud, his movements sharp and jerking as they rush towards some semblance of safety.

Each hop forward sends a strike of intense pain up through his knee and Dean’s not sure how much longer he can keep moving.

"Fuckin’ broke my leg, man," he complains, teeth grating, knowing that he's screwed.

"Let's just get the group together and find a place to hole up. C'mon Dean…" encourages Sam, taking a greater burden of his weight as they cross the street. More infected are a block and a half away, their group is down the other end, fighting off the few immediate threats they've got. The grunts and blows of the fight make Dean's head spin ... or maybe that was the thirty-foot fall.

Yeah, probably that.

Panting heavily, Dean turns to Sam’s profile. "Bet you're happy we didn't get here when it was dark, huh?"

Sam rolls his eyes in response, and they finally make their way to the group, dragging and hopping Dean as fast as they can. The infected down the road are running as best they can, unsure footing and injuries slowing them down.

Josh hurries up to Dean's left and dips under his waiting arm. Between Sam and Josh, they basically carry Dean into one of the buildings that Cas and Ray are ushering them over to, holding the doors open wide.

They're moving through the entrance when Ray quips, "What kind of idiot jumps off a three-storey building?"

Dean growls at her, too pissed off to form words.

Sam snaps, "Dean!"

"She started it!" he barks back, glaring at her.

They find themselves inside an old bakery. It reeks. No doubt, there’re all sorts of organics rotting in the back, fuzzy green mold on anything that used to be edible. The smell is sickening, but it’s safe enough. They won't be able to stay here long. If the infected don't find a way to smash inside, they'll die from the god-awful stench.

His brother and Josh lower Dean into a metal café chair. Cas is there within seconds, lifting his leg and trying to shove up his pants.

"Thought you weren't a human doctor, Cas," he says, provoking the guy, knowing full-well that Cas is only trying to help.

 _As-_ fucking _-if_ he broke his goddamn leg. What the _fuck_ are they gonna do now? Sort of screws the pooch on the whole _'walking across the country_ ' plan. Fucking hell. Useless anger starts to boil in him but he squeezes his eyes shut, making fists and ignoring the stares boring into his skull.

Eventually, he glances up to see Cas’ eyes set on him, the man’s expression severe and unyielding. "Bitch all you want Dean, Sam and I are going to look at your leg."

"Oh, for God’s sakes!” he shouts. “It's broken dumbasses!"

A hard, stinging slap lands across his unshaven cheek.

Slowly turning his head up, he finds Ray smirking down, her palm still open. Dean’s ready to return the favour when her lips part.

"Calm your shit, Winchester. They’re helping you. You keep up the attitude and next time I won’t be so nice." She grins wide, peering down at him, her stare testing his patience.

Eyes flickering to Sam and Cas, Dean knows she’s right. And he _hates_ it. Trying to bury the twitch of getting put in his place, he shifts in the chair and does his damn best to ignore the woman hovering. It's not like he's unaware of being a dick at the moment, but he's got a throbbing, icy pain ripping up through his bone, and he kinda doesn't care.

Reining himself in, releasing an exhausted groan, he stares down at the harsh blue eyes trained on his face. "Fine, whatever. Play doctor!" he snips at Cas.

Sam makes a face, pursing his lips, before helping Cas push Dean's pant-leg up. They unlace his boot. And yeah, getting his boot off really fucking hurts and he thinks maybe he broke more than his leg. They're pulling gently but _fuck_ —

"Watch it! _Jesus_!" he hisses as Cas finally manages to tug the thing all the way off. "It's not like I fell off a damn roof or anything!"

Now it's Cas' turn to roll his eyes at Dean. The ex-angel is definitely not pleased with Dean's whining. Christ, give me a damn break, he thinks. There's already bruising right on the outside of his tibia, and, yup, awesome, ankle is swelling as well. Super.

"Fucking great," he drones sarcastically, throwing an irate look Sam’s way.

"The leg's a clean break I think, but you definitely sprained your ankle too. Jesus, Dean, did you try to land on one leg or something?" teases Sam.

Dean gives his brat of a brother a mocking smile. "Ha, ha, bitch. Find something to splint this with and wrap up my ankle."

"Jerk." Sam bitch-faces him before taking off to look for something to MacGyver a splint.

A clatter of noise brings his attention to Cas, who is arms deep in Dean's backpack searching for anything to wrap his ankle with.

A fleeting panic startles his heart, worried that Cas might find the goddamn doll he’s got hidden in his bag. Not for the first time, he acknowledges how ridiculously weird it is.

“Not there,” he says quick, waving his hand at the guy. Following Dean's directions, Cas locates a tensor bandage in the side pocket. He quickly unravels it and starts tightening the beige stretchy fabric around Dean's rapidly swelling ankle.

"Ice would be good." Cas states offhand while he's working. Dean snorts. Yes, Captain Obvious, ice would be good right now.

Ray swears from behind him. "We’re _not_ staying here for months because you were an idiot." Glancing over his shoulder, he sees her standing tall, her slim shoulders held stiff, garnering everyone's attention. Sam meets her angry stare as he comes out from the back room. There's a subtle green tinge to his paled skin, but in his large fist he's carrying a few metal bars that were surely necessary components to some machine.

And here we go.

Dean grits his teeth, eyes flashing down, trying to control the seething anger. One of these goddamn days he and Ray are gonna just go all out and beat the shit out of each other. Okay, so she's a chick, but she can fight like friggin Rambo. It's a pretty even match-up. The heat in his ankle starts to trickle up to his face.

"Take off then," he grates through his teeth, turning to challenger her. Slap me again, he thinks, I fucking dare you.

"Guys, cool it." Sam butts in forcefully, his voice strained with effort as he tries to bend the metal bar in his hand, his hip leaning on the front counter. "No one is staying here. We'll move on to another town. One with less infected, and figure out what the hell to do."

Ray's lip curls up, and Dean can feel his own do the same.

"Yeah, okay, Sammy. I'll just hop on my horse and we'll be off!" he intones, throwing his brother a bogus smile over his shoulder.

“A real whiner, aren't ya?" Josh chimes in, amused by Dean's current predicament, his tanned skin crinkling at the corners of his mouth, half buried by the beard.

Sam smirks at Josh, his eyebrows up high as if to say, _‘You have no idea, man’_.

Dean _so_ doesn't care for their attitude. It's a good thing he's rendered immobile because he really feels the need to deck someone. The only close body is Cas. And well, the dude’s wrapping his ankle pretty good so he probably shouldn't clock him in the face.

"Listen, we'll get you splinted and wrapped, and we'll just have to trade off lending a shoulder—“

"Sammy, _really_? Even I know that's ridiculous. How far is the next town, even?"

The two other men move to pull out the map and consider options. Meanwhile Rayna storms off towards the smellier hallways of the place. Geez, what's got her iron panties in a bunch? He's the one who fell from a damn building. Yeah, so it puts a kink into things but goddammit, just wait till she’s down on her luck.

The smell from the café bakery seems to be keeping the infected at bay. At least for now. Thankfully, all the windows are covered with blinds and the panes are grimy enough that they're mostly opaque.

With things temporarily settled down, Dean's anger subsides. The pounding in his head helps a little with that, overtaking his thoughts. Cas is finished with the bandage and Dean can feel his heartbeat throbbing in the wrapped limb, pulsing with the urge to swell. Closing his eyes, he lets his head fall back.

It doesn’t last long—a light touch on his bared knee jerks him back to front and center.

Cas is leaning over him, softly touching his skin at random. It's a bit odd so Dean squints into the blue that's close. "I thought we'd taught you all about personal space, Cas. What the hell?"

Ignoring him, Cas' eyes trace his face and neck, following down his body until Dean figures he's being checked over for other injuries; bites, scratches, and the like. There's an inflamed crimson welt on his forearm that Cas drags a finger across, evidently satisfied that the skin's barely marred. Exhaling in a loud rush, Dean tries not to be a dick as he says, "I'm fine. Really. No need to hover."

With a level smile, the ex-angel moves back, grabbing a chair and seating himself in front of Dean, next to his bum leg. The angel's fingers trace the swiftly blooming bruise near the cracked bone. The sensation on his skin is hypersensitive and he can't figure out of it hurts or feels good. Nevertheless, his eyes drift shut.

"You should have stayed with me." Cas states quietly enough that only Dean hears him.

"Relax ... we've done this thousands of times. It's just shit-luck this happened." The sound of his voice is soft, even to his own ears, and he knows it’s got something to do with the pads of Cas’ finger skimming over his skin. He’d bet Cas is remembering how easy it once was to heal. In a flash, Dean would’ve been on his feet.

Or maybe, Dean wonders, his brief dance with mortal vulnerability strikes a chord with the now very human Castiel—the Castiel that can also fall off buildings and break bones. Dean tries not to picture his best friend plummeting to the earth like he did.

Opening his eyes to examine Cas' features, Dean realizes he's never asked his friend how bad it is. Shit, this guy used to fly, he used to have powers. Dean can’t imagine what it would be like to be ordinary after all that. Of course, it isn't the time to bring it up, but in his head, as if his prayers could still be heard, he apologizes.

"Ok,” Sam starts, his loud voice crashing into Dean and Cas’ tense moment. Both of them adjust their positions, turning to look elsewhere. “We won't reach the bigger town, but I think that's best. It's only a two hour walk to Chester ... There are a bunch of farms there from what I can tell. It's not even a town really. We'll rest there tonight and head to St. Anthony tomorrow."

"I don't know if we should head to St. Anthony tomorrow, Sam," Josh suggests, looking at the map and then at Dean. "The big towns might be just as bad here. Who knows?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Sam debates, "but there's nothing in Chester. With winter coming we can't stay there. There's not enough food for all of us, and animals will have died or gone."

"Some farms might have generators or alternative power sources?" Josh contemplates.

Dean thinks back to early jobs with his dad. "Actually, dad and I came through here Sam, it's dry, no hydro sources or anything. But, I'm sure they have wood burning stoves at every one of those places."

"How about we get there in one piece and then decide the next move?"

At that moment, Rayna comes in with a long piece of iron water pipe, a 'T' at the top that's wrapped in dirty carpet. "Here dumbass…" She leers and throws over the crappy single crutch that will probably snap under his weight.

"What a sweetheart!" Dean says with honeyed sarcasm. "I'm _sure_ this ancient one-inch pipe will do the trick!"

"You seem to make other one inch things work just fine." She grins back.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Uncalled for. It’s common knowledge that a man’s dick basically tries to crawl back inside in search of warmer territory.

But then, the more he considers her comment, he's not exactly sure whether that's fully an insult or a half-assed compliment the way it's worded. Dean's lip quirks out of confusion and causes the dark-haired woman to laugh. There's no cruelty behind it and he finds himself shaking his head, muttering thanks for the effort.

"If we're gonna go, let's go." He nudges Cas with his undamaged leg. "Check outside, will ya?"

Cas nods as he rises out of his chair. At the door, his fingers split the blinds apart and he leans in close. "I count ten."

There's movement behind Dean as Josh, Sam, and Ray all stride towards the front door. "Stay with him!" Sam orders, pointing back at Dean.

The door shuts after them, the blinds knocking against the window. Cas stands there, holding the slats wide so he can watch to see if the others need help. Ten is a lot for three. But Rayna does good work with that sword. His formerly feathered friend looks tense but not panicked.

"This sucks man." Dean complains, huffing a breath and clenching his jaw. There's no response from Cas, who's fixed on the fight outside.

Several dead bodies and three hours later, they reach the hick town to conquer all hick towns. It's literally farms ... _all_ farms. Barns and centuries old derelict houses. They make it to the closest one, getting inside with relief. It's dated but sturdy, filled with wood paneling and lace doilies.

Surprisingly, the pipe-crutch held up most of the way there, though Sam took the majority of his weight as he limped on the other leg. When they were three miles out, Cas took over and Dean swung his arm up over his friend's shoulders, Cas' arm hooking around his back.

Their similar heights had actually made walking together way easier than it had been with Sam. Cas was the perfect leaning post, Dean remembers with a dim smile. The sun had been fading into the horizon on their walk, and it had made Cas' eyes glint in a way that Dean normally wouldn't see unless he was really close, which he often wasn't.

Eyes are cool, he'd thought randomly, finding every tiny line was a slightly different shade of blue. The streaks of deep navy fascinated him the most.

"Why are you staring at me?" Castiel had asked, eyeing Dean with bizarre curiosity. Of course, both Sam and Ray turned back from a few steps ahead to once-over Dean with a teasing smile.

"Did'ya crack your head?" Sam asked, stifling a laugh. Ray outright chortled and added, "Cas, if he starts telling you you're pretty, he's probably bleeding in the brain."

"Shut up, assholes. I was not staring at Cas." What a blatant lie.

In the present, Dean pictures the sun-lightened irises. Shit, he _must_ have cracked his noggin. Because sure as the fact that the world had gone to shit, he'd been gazing into the former angel's peepers.

And that kind of thing isn't allowed.

Yeah, but c'mon, Dean reasons with himself, eyes _are_ cool. There's no shame in acknowledging that. His own are pretty awesome. Women have said so countless times over. And even Sam's eyes are the kind that change colour and stuff ... So yeah, that's the why of it. Cas' eyes are just appealing, like flowers and babies and shit. It's nothing more than that. Just pretty eyes in a manly physique, complete with peach-fuzz and dangly bits that Dean's seen countless times. It's nothing to get worked up over.

Not again, anyway. Those days are far behind him.

"How are you, Dean?" asks Castiel, coming to rest beside him on the cot in the farmhouse living area. The interruption to his thoughts is highly welcome.

"Good. Pretty full." Dean pats his stomach.

Turns out farmers are hoarders. Upon searching out the farm home, most of them found countless stores of cans and other goodies. Even a bag of old chocolates that have a funky taste, but they're pretty awesome.

They've just finished eating a high-class meal of cold beans, baby corn on the cob, and SpaghettiOs. God, he's gonna have the most spectacular shit tomorrow morning, he thinks, smiling wide. If only he had a good book or a car magazine.

Either way, he’s looking forward to it. Gotta count the small joys. And the thing is? If you’re shittin’, you’re eatin’.

"Yes, I’m very full as well." Cas echoes, scooting back on the makeshift bed in the living room to lean back against the dated paneling.

Sam stands up from his chair, stretching and yawning loud. He smiles at Dean. "Beds, couches, warmth … We’re livin’ the posh life, Dean." The delighted, innocent smile stretching out Sam's face is a welcome sight.

"It's the small joys, Sammy," Dean agrees.


	9. Chapter 9

"For the love of pie, please tell me you made lots," Dean begs in his gravelly morning voice when the scent of coffee stirs him awake.

Rising up from the cot full of aches and pains, he peers into the kitchen to see his brother grinning over a glossy black mug.

"Oh yeah. I’ve had three cups already. Also, I went out to the shed beside the barn, busted in and found three full propane tanks. The stove was connected to the main propane run, but that was dried up so I found some tools and got one of the smaller tanks set up so we could cook and everything. The cold beans and shit last night were awful."

Staring in awe, he's nearly speechless at how industrious his brother is. "My god, Sammy, you are the best brother ever!"

Sam laughs. "And, guess what I found in the barn?"

"What?"

Without answering, Sam moves away from the stove where he's got a pot of something warming, and heads towards the wooden table, moving just out of Dean's line of sight from the cot.

Sam reappears, stepping into the living room under the arch. "Check this out…"

"Nice. Man, that’s awesome."

It's an ancient crutch, the wood angling down to a joint at the bottom with a bulbous end. The underarm piece at the top is covered in worn brown leather and tarnished brass rivets.

"Unfortunately, I only found the one. But it's better than nothing."

Dean nods, agreeing. He takes the wooden support and tries to stand, but his head swims and he wobbles. Sam is there to grab him, pushing him back down. "I think you cracked your head yesterday. Just chill for now. We're not going anywhere yet."

"But," Dean whines. "Coffee? Food?" No, wait... "Actually, I need to hit the head first."

Scrunching his nose, Sam says, "Yeah, you’re on your own for that," and walks back to the stove.

Trying to judge how serious his bladder is, he sits there for a bit, debating the task of walking to the front door and outside, or sitting on his ass and eating first. There’s also the coffee to consider. Dean wants to do everything all at once somehow.

Eventually, he groans and gets up with the help of the crutch. Despite his earlier reluctance, Sam sighs and comes over to help. "I'll help you get to the porch."

Dean smiles at his brother. "Thanks, man."

Feeling much better a few minutes later, he falls heavily into one of the kitchen chairs—ready to be served a bucket of coffee and whatever warmed canned goods there are for breakfast.

Over the next couple hours, they eat, Josh and Ray chop some wood and the wood stove gets stocked and fired up. By noon, it's toasty warm in the old farm house. Warmer than they've been in a while, and it makes them all drowsy. Most of them find books and old newspapers to read and relax. Dean's happy they aren't getting too excited to take off—he's all too aware that it means he's gonna get left behind. They all can't stay here. It's the same as before, he muses, still a ton of bad shit out there, and they can't sit by and let people be eaten and killed out there. He'll be no help. Meaning, they're gonna have to cut their losses.

Which really sucks ... being that loss and all.

And someone will have to stay with him, of course. He has a feeling he knows who's going to get that unhappy task. Poor ex-angel, Dean thinks, because obviously it'll be Cas that gets nurse duty. God, the last time he broke his leg he drove Sam nuts.

Normally he and Cas get along great, but stuck in close quarters for months? They're liable to kill each other.

Around mid-afternoon, Sam comes over to his spot on the cot to break the news. "We can't stay," he says.

Dean glances at the others in the room; they aren't paying attention to the brothers' conversation. Josh is playing solitaire with an old deck of cards, Ray is cleaning the guns with a kit she found in the house, and Cas is reading an old, hard-cover copy of _Great Expectations._ For some reason, Dean finds that funny.

"I know," he replies, putting down the newspaper in his hands. He'd been rereading some of the last few editions. It was as bad as you'd expect: ' _NEW DRUG HAS CANNIBALISTIC SIDE EFFECTS'_ and ' _IS IT THE END OF THE WORLD?'_

Yup. Dean folds the paper over so he doesn’t have to see the pictures.

"Look, Dean, if you keep off the leg and ankle, it'll heal in, like, three months maybe," Sam reassures, his voice soft.

"It's a long three months, Sam. Brings us into the dead of winter. You guys won't be able to come back. You're gonna have to keep heading west, or south. When are we gonna meet back up? Or where, even?" Dean asks, glancing at his leg stretched out straight in front of him, fully splinted, wrapped, and propped on two pillows. His right foot and every inch from there up to his knee throbs like a bastard.

"Honestly Dean ... I think you need to spend the winter here. We'll come back this way in the spring—"

Sam stops when he sees Dean's eyes bulge wide. "You are _not_ leaving Cas and I alone here for a whole goddamn winter," he whispers starkly. "We'll murder each other."

His brother smiles and mutters something low under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing.” Sam lies. “And I'm pretty sure you won't kill each other. What else are you gonna do, Dean? It's not like we have snow ploughs. And you're sure as hell not gonna snowshoe across the country!"

Dean gives his brother a look that says he needs to keep it down. He continues in a quiet murmur. "We'll be stranded," he says.

"For a bit," Sam concedes.

As much as he hates to admit it, what other option is there? "Fuck ... This blows chunks."

Sam nods. Taking the conversation as over, his younger brother gets up to do something useful. But not Dean.

 _Nope_.

Dean gets the joy of keeping his ass parked on a cot for the remainder of his sanity.

It's a whole two days before the group decides to head out. They've catalogued all the stores of food in the cold cellar, and even been damn nice enough to hit up the other farms in the area and find even more stockpiles. Not just that, but Sam got the well working, and Josh found quite a few more propane tanks. Nearby infected were taken care of. There are good piles of wood on many of the properties.

It's the best they could hope for, really. And their situation should make him a little happy, or relieved, but instead he gets this weird feeling the closer they get to the group's departure. A foreboding sensation, accompanied in his head with _Dun, Dun, Duhhhhhh_.

It's like he's leaping off that building all over again. Knowing his brother is leaving is part of it. Especially with no way of staying in touch. They only have the one CB, and since Sam and the group are gonna be looking for survivors, they kinda need it. He loathes the idea of letting his brother go like this, it feels so frigging unnatural that he's gritting as teeth as everyone packs.

Everyone, except for he and Cas of course. When it was settled that Cas would be staying behind with the cripple, there was a moment where they shared a quiet exchange. And yeah, Cas is definitely dreading the two of them being alone. Dean—totally not on purpose—is gonna drive the dude mad. And Cas' remaining peculiar ways of being a human are no doubt going to give his patience a run.

"Later Winchester—Don't get eaten!" Ray shouts as she stomps out the door, long, chocolate-coloured hair bouncing over her back.

"Ray!" he calls out. She comes back in and Dean beckons her over, as serious an expression he can muster displayed on his face. He motions to her so that he can whisper, and says, "I know we don't see eye to eye, but for the love of God, please watch out for my brother. _Please._ "

She pulls back and looks him hard in the eyes, her deep brown stare full of rare compassion and understanding. "I've got his back," she promises with a curt nod before heading back out.

Josh hugs him, patting his back and telling him to be safe. Dean returns the sentiment. Josh is a good guy, skilled to the nines. Dean's moderately reassured. If he's gotta leave Sam in anyone's company, Ray and Josh are good picks.

Finally, Sam steps over as Cas heads out to see the others off. Both of them are silent, feeling that weight of separation hanging over them like never before. This is so different than hunting, he realizes. Without thinking, he reaches out to grab Sam and pull the big guy down for a tight hug. Even though Sam is a giant now, Dean can still remember holding his baby brother in his arms. It's hard to overcome that feeling of duty.

"Be careful, Sammy," he says into his brother's ear, trying hard not to get weepy.

"You too, Dean. And, hey, go easy on Cas. I know how you get when you're injured, but he sure doesn't." Sam's smiling as he unlatches from Dean's hold—being a little reluctant to let go. But damn, it's his baby brother going out there. In the world of death and naked violence. It wouldn't be the first time, but at least in the pre-infected days there were cell phones. Fucking useless technology.

Sam navigates around the table and chairs towards the door in the kitchen, his bag strapped on his back.

"Hey Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"Uhm," Dean falters. They’ve never been good at the touchy-feely crap. The depth of emotion seems to come across in his expression anyway.

"Me too," says Sam, smiling over at Dean in casual reassurance.

Dean dips his head. "Alright, get the hell out of here."

The thuds of Sam's boots on the porch along with a murmur of conversation between his brother and Cas are the last things he hears before the old farmhouse is filled with silence. It's a few minutes before Cas comes back in, looking resigned and mildly dejected.

"I'll offer up a pre-emptive apology for how annoying I know I'm gonna be." Dean offers with a pleasant smile.

Cas returns the gesture with a lackluster, no teeth version of the expression. Brushing a hand through his hair, he asks Dean what he wants for dinner, running off the list of endless canned goods they can choose from.

While Cas cooks, Dean reminisces, pulling his journal out. He pauses as he's opening it up— _I have a journal?_ It could be worse, he reasons. At least it ain't a damn diary.

…

" _We ran into raiders the first month, a small group of them loaded with weapons and a goddamned grenade. Fuckers weren't the worst we've seen since though. Shot the grenade way too soon. I picked it up and threw it back, laughing. Fucking awful, isn't it? People just outright killing each other. It's kill or be killed in this fucking stupid world. Give me monsters any day man… people are fucking nuts._

_Cas was awesome as an angel, but as a human, Sam and I needed to teach him a few things. He was a good fighter already, good with guns too, not as good as Sam and I, but decent. It's more his tact with survivors we found. He ~~had~~ HAS a strange way with people. He's a weird little dude. We took him off people duty and let Sam be in charge of that. Sammy's always good at the people thing anyway._

_So yeah… we won against the first run in with raiders. We picked up a few people a little while after that, one got attacked by infected. The other two were taken out by raiders at night, we had to fight and fight until dawn before finally we came out on top. Sam had needed stitches and Ray dislocated a shoulder, but we were more or less sound. It seems people keep latching on to our group, and then die… Sam and I wonder every now and then if we'll lose Josh or Rayna too… but it's been a long time they've been with us now and they seem solid._

_…_

Dean looks up at the clock that's still working; he's been writing for not even twenty minutes,

 _"How the goddamn hell am I supposed to get through a whole fucking winter???!!!"_ He adds in a vicious scribble.

Reaching over, Dean grabs the crutch and heaves himself off the cot with an old-man groan and staggers into the kitchen where Cas is bent over the stove, cooking what smells like tomato soup. Yum.

He sits down at one of the wooden chairs and watches the man cook. After thirty seconds he realizes the boredom is going to eat him alive.

⊢≬⊣

Moving the wooden spoon in figure-eights through the soup, Cas tries to slow his rampant thoughts. In that moment, Dean moves into the kitchen and noisily takes a seat but doesn’t say a word.

Sam warned him that Dean might be difficult to deal with. But Cas isn’t worried about that. He’s more worried that he and Dean are trapped here, in this small home together.

Alone. Maybe for the next several months.

How is he supposed to handle the proximity? It’s been bad enough since he became aware of his feelings, but at least there were always buffers.

Castiel has a feeling that something will go terribly wrong over the course of the winter.

**  
**


	10. Chapter 10

It’s all about balance.

Dean leans back on the hind leg of the kitchen chair, tempting the fates of gravity. As entertainment goes, it’s a good choice.

Next to singing to himself. Oh, and annoying the shit out of Cas. Unintentionally, of course.

The chair sways too far back, his stomach lurches for a tenth of a second before two firm hands grab the chair and forcibly sets it right again.

Cas growls impatiently over his head. "Dean, I swear! You're going to fall and crack your head and, goddammit, if you do, I’m going to leave you on the floor!"

He laughs, watching Cas edge around the table to wash the dishes with the well water. Perhaps he's been testing Cas' patience too much. In his defense, the guy won't let him do anything and he can only stand reading for so long.

"You would never!" he argues. Castiel sends a wry grin over his shoulder, inviting Dean to test that theory. It's near three in the afternoon and the day is particularly cold.

Cas has gotten good at keeping the fire adequately stocked and the whole main floor of the farmhouse is filled with a thick warmth. It's nice that he can lounge around in a simple Henley and a pair of jogging pants. The former resident of the house had nearly two dozen pairs of jogging pants and it's pretty much the only thing he and Cas wear now. They look fit for Wal-Mart, but it's damn comfy.

His eyes are closed, listening to the sound of water sloshing as Cas cleans up their dishes. He'd thought being cooped up would drive him crazy, and some days it gets the better of him. But truth is, he's kind of enjoying the respite.

The long days of nothing aren’t totally horrible. For once in his life, he can take time to read, or write in the journal like his dad once did, play some card games.

A good chunk of time is reserved for worrying about Sam. Trying not to imagine his little brother being attacked or getting sick is exhausting, but Cas has this uncanny ability to notice when Dean's mind wanders to Negative Town. The angel redirects the conversation to books or songs, asking what things mean ... Dean picks up on the scheme every time, but it still does the trick.

Every so often, he wonders when the other shoe will drop. Things are too peaceful. Knowing himself, Dean wonders when the calm will give way to irritation.

Cas is drying dishes with a blue and white checkered cloth while Dean hums quietly to himself. When he eventually looks up from his stare, he sees that his friend has turned around, drying a steel pot, watching Dean with mild interest. Almost like Cas is resting his eyes and they’ve happened to land on Dean in the process. Having an audience, Dean continues to hum a little louder than before.

That night, the wind has picked up and it's gusting hard against the old stone exterior of the house. There are little cracks in the walls, maybe the foundation too, because the fire is having a hard time keeping up, and they have to pack it with logs to keep things comfortable. The nights, he's noticed, are getting to be a lot chillier.

The living room is a two-parter just past the kitchen. The main part he suspects was meant to be a dining room, but instead there's a buffet against one wall, and the cot against the other. The formal part of the living room is beyond a second wide arch, a big arm chair a foot from the cot beside the TV, and across from that, a dusty, flower-power brown couch sitting below a large picture window. The far side of the living room, furthest from him, is where the stairs go up to the second storey. Dean hasn't been up there yet. The old farm house stairs are steep and narrow. The steps are made of old wood that've been lacquered like you wouldn't believe and he just knows if he tries to get up there he'll wind up on his ass. Thankfully, there's a washroom on the main floor they can use, and the toilet will work if they dump a bucket of water in it, forcing the flush. It's not perfect, but compared to how they've lived the past two years, it's pretty fucking awesome.

As the billows of wind whip against the house, Dean’s sitting in the chair with his leg propped on a tattered yellow ottoman, tapping beats of songs on his knee that are passing through his head.

"I miss music," he announces absently. Sure he can sing and hum and air-guitar the whole day if he wants, but he would love to be able to close his eyes, put in some headphones and drown in the soothing lull of rock.

"Would you like me to sing?" Cas unexpectedly asks.

Dean can't help but be thrown for a moment. "I've never heard you sing before," he realizes. "Sam and I sing all the time, or I do anyway, but never heard you sing ... So, yeah Cas, go for it," he encourages.

He's watching as Cas starts to hum quietly first. He thinks he knows the tune; it makes him sit forward in the chair. And when the words ultimately take shape, Dean freezes.

"Cas, how do you know that song?"

The former angel averts his eyes, his cheeks flushing as he replies, "Your mother used to sing that to you."

Dean swallows. "Yeah, I know that. How do _you_ know that?"

Of all the things they've talked about, this sure was never one of them. Best friends or not, they avoid the bad topics: Cas leaving after the whole deal with Lucifer, Cas popping the door on purgatory and then fucking deserting him there, his parents, Sam coming back soulless, Cas becoming human.

"Umm…"

"Cas?" Dean presses, his hand half-extended, begging for an explanation.

Cas responds as he stares up at the ceiling, "When you and Sam became ... important to me, I went back in time to visit the two of you."

Dean shakes his head. "But … why?"

"I don't know. Maybe to see you both in a time when you were not burdened by the world. To see either of you smile in a way perhaps I'd never seen."

Jesus, Dean thinks, that's a bit heavy. He can't seem to form a response to the admission. He ends up feeling a lot of things ... but mostly just confusion and an echo of loss.

Before he gets a chance to speak, Cas continues, "Do you remember a few months before-before things happened when you were younger? You had a stomach ache, your mother was holding you and she was singing that song."

If possible, his eyes widen further; the memory hitting him like a Mack-truck. It's fuzzy and warped with time, but he remembers. Oh God, he remembers.

"Yeah," his voice breaks, "Yeah, I remember. She, uh, she sang and I felt better." Dean inhales shakily. "Like, immediately felt better."

Cas gives him the tiniest of smiles, on the edge of sheepish, and that's when Dean realizes that Cas didn't just zap back to watch—he'd intervened.

"That—that was you?" he chokes the words out. An image of Cas touching Dean as a kid to heal him of a stupid stomach ache sits across his mind and it gives him a weird feeling that he can’t shake off. _Angels are watching over you_ , his mother’s voice echoes in his thoughts.

Only one, Mom. Only one.

Across from him on the couch, Cas is wearing a barely-there smile. "I never like seeing you in pain, Dean."

Cas starts singing again, softer this time, as if he isn't sure if Dean will tell him to stop.

" _And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain. Don't carry the world upon your shoulders…_ "

That night, Dean dreams of many things. His mother's long blonde hair near his face, the way she smells, Sammy crying when he was two, his dad's reddened face, a monster screaming at him, dirt under his fingernails.

Each scene melds together with the next, and one image blends into a darker one, a glazed over mock-up of a remembered place.

He's anxious, his subconscious knowing where his brain is taking him before he does. He sees beige, and stone, and red. Suddenly, there's pain. In his face, his arm ... but mostly his chest. A tight ache that cinches on the heels of each breath.

"Cas ... no, don't!" he hears himself pleading seconds before pain blasts across his cheek and eye socket. "Please ... no, no. Cas ... This isn't you," he begs helplessly. The world is tipping sideways, but he's not going down, something's holding him up and he latches onto it. He's hurting and he's angry, but mostly scared ... because this is it. His best friend is going to kill him. “Cas, I need you," he says. And he keeps saying it. Over and over again trying to change the outcome. “I need you, please, I need you … I—“

"—Dean?!"

A violent jolt stirs him awake, eyes flying open in panic.

Dean's shaking on the cot, his heart beating with all the emotion of that memory rushing back like it was happening all over again. He tries to pull himself together, not sure why he'd dreamt of that. He hasn't in a long time.

"I'm fine," he says, his voice wrecked. "Go back to bed."

Cas' mouth is tight, a flush line making his normally thick lips seem thin. Guy looks like he might be sick. "You were yelling for me to stop, saying-saying that you needed me." Dean notices him twitching with guilt.

"It wasn't you," he reasons.

"Yes ... it was."

"No, Cas, we both know it was Naomi. Don't be stupid." His words seem to have no sway over Cas' sudden remorse. Dean is reminded in the quiet seconds between their exchange that it's the middle of the night ... and that, beyond this farmhouse, the world is dead. It makes the moment between them uncomfortable somehow. In all the time they've been travelling through the world, side-by-side, day-in and day-out, they've avoided discussing anything serious. Like the world ending washed away any past indiscretions between them. What a crock.

"Look, thanks for waking me up, but I'm—“

"Dean, I never told you," Cas cuts him off, meeting his eyes in the dark. "But, I'll say it now, I need you too."

"Cas…" Dean's tone is the embodiment of a stop-sign. One that Cas speeds right past at eighty clicks.

"No. _Listen_. You’re ... you," the man fumbles, takes a steadying breath and continues, "You're a good friend Dean. And I need you. I think, _maybe_ , the same way you need me, so please be a little more careful with yourself." Finishing the sentence, Cas once-overs Dean’s busted limb.

Dean avoids that soul-deep stare suddenly on him, completely unnerved by the whole dudebro moment they seem to be having. Although, if he's honest, it feels stronger than that. Having to force his response, he replies, "Same goes for you, Cas."

"I'm always careful with myself," Cas states, twisting the words to give it another meaning that Dean can't begin to understand ... nor does he want to. The comfort of the cot is calling to him. He’s had enough of whatever this is.

“You should go back to bed. I am.” He settles back down, ignoring that Cas is still sitting on the edge of his bed.

Dean closes his eyes, trying his absolute best not to feel his friend’s presence the way he does. Why does it feel like such a persistent weight? Like the ex-angel’s essence is wrapped around him. It’s comforting in a way; the nearby warmth. And he feels himself drifting back to sleep despite the knowledge that he’s being watched.

Fuck, it’s not like Cas hasn’t done that before anyway.

Dean's mostly below the conscious line when he feels a gentle touch sweep over his head, pushing him deeper towards pleasant dreams. Maybe it was Cas’ arm as he got up, maybe a waft of air, maybe a dream ... but in the back of his mind, he thinks it was Cas’ hand. He falls asleep telling himself it means nothing.

**  
**


	11. Chapter 11

At the beginning of November,a few infected find their way onto the property and Castiel is left to deal with them alone. After cutting off their heads, he drags their bodies as far as he can manage from the farmhouse and lights a fire. The smoke and awful smell seems to follow him all the way back. Striding into the kitchen, he tosses his machete onto the table with a clang.

“How many?” Dean asks from the cot.

“Just three.” Cas grabs a few logs that he’d left by the kitchen door and brings them into the living room to restock the fire.

Dean watches him move around the house. To his disappointment, it’s not an interested gaze that follows him around as he moves more logs to pile them against the woodstove, and then back into the kitchen to grab a pot and fill it with water to do the dishes.

“I can help with that,” offers Dean.

“No need.”

Though Dean doesn’t say anything after that, there’s a building tension in the air. It’s a strange elusive sensation that Cas has come to find he doesn’t quite understand. He can feel that something is off, but he can’t tell why, and every now and then he questions his sanity over it.

Despite Dean’s injury and resulting limitations, he’s done well enough on his own and rarely asks Cas for help.

A trend which ends that evening.

Sometime after the sun has begun to set, Castiel finds Dean leaning against the door jamb to the bathroom, cursing as he tries to toe his socks off.

“Do you need some help?” he asks, a hint of a tease in his voice.

Dean grunts and rounds on him. “Just let me take the splints off so I can take a bath or something. I friggin’ reek, man.”

“You know as well as I do that it needs to stay for at least another couple months.”

“Horseshit.” Dean tips his head back against the wall with a crack and a frustrated sigh is blown out between his lips. “For the last couple weeks, all I’ve done is wipe myself down with a stupid washcloth. I’m a little past the solo sponge-bath routine. I want to fill the tub and just get in.”

“I’m sure we can figure that out, Dean. Fill it up halfway with the well water and I’ll do the rest with boiled water from the stove,” he says. Thankfully for Cas, there’s a shower upstairs that works fine. It’s near freezing, but he can get clean with ease.

“Sweet, that’d be awesome. But don’t use the stove, it’s a waste of propane. Just stick the pot on top of the woodstove like you do for dishes, it’ll get warm enough from the fire.”

Agreeing, Cas heads off to fill up as many pots as he thinks will fit on the cast iron top of the woodstove in the living room. By the time he checks in on Dean, his friend is standing just inside the small bathroom staring at the half-filled tub with dispirited longing.

“Do you, um, want some help getting in?” he asks.

Father in Heaven, please say no. It’s more prudent for my sanity, Castiel thinks.

Dean turns at the sound of his voice, seemingly pulled from a distant thought. “Uh, yeah ... guess that’s a good idea.”

Castiel didn’t expect to descend into hell after the world fell apart. What a glorious surprise for him. Because, surely, helping Dean get naked and wet is absolutely going to be hell on earth.

Standing up, Dean puts all his weight on his undamaged leg and steadies himself against the wall. Cas moves into his space slow and feeling a bit off kilter. Putting every thought from his mind, Castiel takes the hem of Dean’s loose sweater in his hands and starts pulling it up, revealing the smooth skin underneath.

Breathing is probably required for this.

“Uh, Cas?” Dean interrupts.

In a strange daze, Cas looks into his friend’s eyes. The familiar green is hesitant. “Yes?”

“Pretty sure I can manage the top part myself. Would you mind pulling my socks off?”

“Um, of course.” Never before has Castiel been this aware of an awkward tension. He no longer questions its existence. Bending to one knee, he pulls off Dean’s socks and tosses them into the kitchen. It’s probably a good thing that Dean is taking a bath, he does sort of smell a little.

When Castiel chances to look up, Dean’s wearing nothing but jogging pants, one pant leg rolled up over the splint.

“Go check the water, I’ll, uh, figure this out.” Dean turns towards the toilet and puts the lid down.

Castiel heads out, his mind blank. Checking the water on the woodstove, it’s warm, but not hot. Debating whether to wait here or go back to the washroom, Cas ends up taking several paces in either direction. Finally, he rubs a hand across the back of his neck and walks towards the kitchen.

The bathroom door is partly closed over. Going up to it, he knocks lightly. “Can I come in?”

A gruff ‘ _yeah’_ slips out through the crack. Castiel pushes in the door and finds Dean seated on the toilet lid, boxers still on, jogging pants down but caught at the end of his damaged leg, the homemade splint catching the loose fabric.

Without a word, he grabs Dean’s leg and gently pulls back the fabric. Throwing the jogging pants behind him, he takes a moment to look over the splint setup. It’s nothing but a couple metal bars on either side of his leg from ankle to knee, the tensor bandage secured around the whole thing.

Despite having seen Dean entirely naked before, this feels enormously different. “Water’s warm but not quite ready.”

A distant hum leaves Dean’s mouth and his eyes stare off somewhere above Cas’ head.

“Are you alright?” he wonders out loud after a few minutes.

“Don’t like being useless is all.”

“You’re not useless, Dean.” Cas leans back against the wall and surveys his friend. Dean’s broad shoulders are slumped forward, his features hidden as he stares down at the floor.

They don’t say much after that and Cas silently ducks out to go check the water. It’s warm enough now and he starts carrying pot after pot to the bathroom to fill the tub. It’s not as full as it could be, but it will have to do.

Now, it manages to become more awkward than before. Cas has to remind himself to breathe as if he were some kind of dolphin. It’s a very distracting enterprise.

“I need help,” whispers Dean, his lips tight.

Going over to his friend, Castiel grabs under his arms and pulls him off the toilet seat. Dean steadies on one foot and reaches down with one hand to push his boxers down his thighs. A funny laugh from Dean interrupts the stifling atmosphere.

“I’ve seen a few pornos that have started this way, you know.”

Castiel freezes, his eyes flaring as he stares Dean in the face. “Are you implying something?” he asks, every nerve standing on end.

Another laugh rips out of Dean, louder this time. As if the notion is preposterous. “No! You pervert. Was just sayin’. You have to admit, it’s kinda funny.”

Dean pushes his boxers down until they fall to his feet so he can step out of them. Every effort is directed at not looking down. Yes, Castiel has seen Dean’s dick before. But this situation seems ill-suited to casual glances.

Besides, Dean would obviously notice.

“Cas?” Dean breaks through his internal struggle and he realizes they’re standing there, bathtub full, Dean naked.

“Oh right, sorry. Um, maybe, hold on to me and we’ll get your good leg in and then you can sit down and prop the bad leg on the side of the tub?” he suggests.

Dean nods, braces his entire weight on Castiel’s shoulder and on the count of three they hop him into the tub.

Instantly, Dean’s footing on the slick tub base slips and suddenly both of Dean’s arms are tight around Cas’ shoulders. A sharp curse cuts into the sound of the sloshing water. Some water soaks Cas’ jeans.

“Well that was smooth,” says Dean, his voice strained with effort and heavy sarcasm.

At this point Cas has somehow ended up with both arms around Dean’s middle, and he can’t remember how to let go. Every inch of Dean’s skin under his is absolute perfection—soft and warm. If only his hands were his lips, or perhaps his tongue.

Dean has steadied himself, balancing in the tub on one foot with his splinted broken leg up on the edge of the cast-iron tub.

The seconds tick by and the tiny country bathroom is electrified with awkward molecules. And yes, those do exist. He’s positive of that.    

“Uh.” Dean begins to pull back. “You gonna help me lower down or what?”

Cas snaps out of it and does as he’s asked, almost insensitively plopping Dean into the water. From his wrists to his elbows, his long-sleeve white cotton shirt is soaked through, but he couldn’t care less.

Straightening up, he can’t help but see everything. It’s all right there. Spread out in the worse-for-wear, white-glossed iron tub.

“Um, call for me when you’re ready to get out. I’ll help.” Cas rushes out the door, shuts it behind him and heads for the stairs.

Taking the narrow, lacquered wooden steps two at a time, he hits the top landing fast and rushes into his room.

Once inside, he’s not quite sure what to do.

“Well. This is completely absurd,” he says to himself, trying to shake his head to clear unwanted, intrusive thoughts.

It doesn’t help. There’s one surefire way to calm himself. Usually he avoids this route of distraction. Because, truth is, it’s not so much a distraction as a complete indulgence.

As Dean would say, “Fuck it.”

Castiel pushes his stiff jeans down his legs and takes a breath. This is very wrong. Either way, he reaches into his underwear—a grey and red striped pair of boxers that he’d stolen from Dean long ago—and closes his hand around his erection.

A spark lights off with the first touch and he knows that there’s no stopping things now. If Dean calls for help, he’s going to have to wait.

Moving slow at first, Castiel strokes himself, his breath flowing out from his lungs. His fantasies are never extravagant; it would be too painful if they were.

The build-up is quick, and he doesn’t move towards the bed, but stays rooted on the wooden floor, his knees locked, muscles freezing his legs in a stiff line.

Squeezing up against the head, Castiel closes his eyes and lets his mind wander in a sea of aimless, abstract thoughts of Dean. There’s a lot to choose from. What always works best is the thought of Dean cradling his face with his broad palms and pulling him in for a kiss. A kiss that turns into chaos. Into heady movements below the waist. Into erections rubbing together, and moaning. Into a coiled tension, a flood of heat that washes over him. An ache that makes him bite his lip not to cry out.

Castiel rushes towards his orgasm, fist moving faster as the pressure climbs to a peak. Release hits him hard and fast with a hoarse expletive shot from his mouth, come landing onto the old hardwood, and Dean’s former boxers tucked under his balls.

That was deplorable. “Dammit.”

Later, when he helps Dean out of the bath, he makes sure to avoid looking Dean in the face. Both of them wind up going to bed early, and he’s grateful. It’s exhausting to feel guilty and sad at the same time.

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

Staring into the brass-framed mirror over the pedestal sink in the bathroom, Dean frowns at the haystack on top of his head. Over the last couple years he’s gotten Sam to hack at it with scissors, but now, the dirty blond is creeping longer every damn day. Before, he could manage perfection with minimal effort—a little goopy crap, a little tousle and Wa-lah!

Not the case anymore.

Cranking the faucet, Dean ducks his hands under the flow and captures a puddle in the cup of his palms. Bending over, he tosses the water on top of his head and runs his fingers through it.

Cool drops trickle down the back of his neck and he drags his palm across to mop them up, only to have a few more make their way under his t-shirt.

Turning off the tap, satisfied that he looks presentable, he grabs the crutch from its resting spot against the wall and tucks it under his armpit.

Dean gets one foot into the kitchen and does a full-stop, wondering why the fuck he even bothers? Cas has already seen him in every shade of ugly and worse, so there’s no audience on that front. Not that Dean gives two shits if Cas thinks he looks less apocalypse-weary than normal.

At the minimum, he keeps the stench levels down. Hence the bath a few days ago.

Fuck. Wasn't that an experience.

Hello, Awkward-Ville. Population: Two.

Bitter and then some, Dean had tried to make light of it. Like, c’mon now, what kind of man can’t even get himself clean? Jesus. And then there was Mr. Angel, weirdest of weird. It’s not like the guy hasn’t seen him in the buff before.

But then there was proximity. And touching. The whole not-looking-in-the-eyes thing afterward, like they’d gone and done something—

“Dean?”

Clearing his throat, Dean turns up to his name and finds Cas standing in the kitchen staring at him, eyebrows pulled together.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“You were in a daze.”

Dean shrugs. “Not much else to do, is there?”

“I guess.”

“What? You got any _wild_ plans today?”

Cas shoots him a dry look before he goes back to wiping the counter.

“Oh c’mon, humour me.”

“I’m not here for your entertainment. I’m here so you don’t get yourself killed.”

And yet he’s slowly dying anyway. Of boredom. “Yeah, yeah. You’re a great babysitter, Cas.” Moving out into the kitchen, Dean rests his hip against the table edge and stares impatiently at the only other person around.

“What?”

“I’m bored,” he whines. “Let’s play a game or something. You like games, remember?”

Cas rolls his eyes.

“Perfect. I’m gonna go get some cards. Sit down.” Dean pats the table and marches off towards the Harry Potter door beneath the stairs. Inside, he grabs the blue deck of cards Josh had found when they first got here.

When he sits back down he makes quick work of the shuffling and only pauses to look up and grin across the table. Whatever mood Cas is in, he’s wearing it down.

“So, _Dean_ , what are we going to play?”

“I’m gonna teach you how to play poker. Texas Hold’em to be exact.” Dean goes on to explain the basics of the game and how it’s played. He knows Cas won’t remember the order of hands, but that’s not the point.

It’s something to do. Board games would be kickass. Unfortunately, whoever lived in this place wasn’t a big fan of Hasbro.

After a few explanatory hands, Cas seems to get the hang of it and they start playing for real, using old pennies as betting chips.

Within a half hour, he’s got every one of Cas’ tells pinned down. Bluffing? Eyes dart to the right and down. About to score a big ol’ hand? Bites the inside of his lip. And when Dean wins the game and rakes in all the copper chips wearing a massive grin, he watches the way Cas clenches his jaw and glares across the table.

“I don’t like this game anymore.”

“You liked it when you were winning,” he counters.

“Is there more to it than this? The constant back and forth betting can be tedious.”

Dean snorts. “Oh, yeah, there’s different takes on the game. For instance, one version, would uh, have you ass-naked right now.”

Cue that Cas-like confusion. “What does being naked have to do with poker?”

“Alcohol and college girls, my friend.”

“We have no alcohol and I’m not a girl. Nor in college.”

“Captain Obvious strikes again.” Dean smiles wide and gathers the cards to slide them back in the cardboard box. “It’s like this: Anytime someone loses a hand, they have to remove a piece of clothing. The loser winds up naked.”

“That’s ... interesting.”

“It can be.”

The longest of silences sinks into the room and he can’t help but think back to when they first got here and he knew that they’d drive each other insane.

Slowly going, crazy am I.

_“—Hello! Is anyone there? Please…”_

Dean straightens as fast as a bow-wire, his spine snapping vertical. From somewhere beyond the kitchen windows, there’s a man calling out.

Trying to see through the pine boards blocking the glass, he whips back at the sound of the chair legs creaking across the linoleum.

“Shh, wait.” Dean holds out his hand, like the guy needed a visual or something.

Being on the far side of the kitchen, he slips out of his chair and slinks towards the front counter to the left of the sink. They’ve done their best to board the windows with scraps, but even so, there’s an inch gap in the panels and if he stands just right, he can see out but can’t be seen.

Shit. Guy out there has been someone's lunch. Though, seeing as he’s still breathing, probably more like a snack.

“Is there anyone there?” Mr. Snack calls out again.

Dean doesn’t notice Cas has left his chair until the guy’s pushing in front of him to get to the door.

Moving without thought, Dean throws his arm around Cas from behind, wrapping across his shoulders. Pulling him close, Dean stamps a ‘Hells No’ on the guy’s plans to book it outside.

“Don’t.”

“Dean,” pleads Cas. “He needs our help.”

Looking through the window, Dean grimaces. Yeah, fuckin’ guy needs help alright. But he won’t find it here. Moving laboriously, the injured man clasps a hand over the leaky side of his neck. Blood covers every finger, maroon red running down the front of his thick beige sweater.

“He was bit Cas, he might turn. We need to wait.”

“But—”

Hauling Cas tighter against his chest, he moves his mouth next to his ear. “We are _not_ bringing him in here. If he doesn’t turn in the next few minutes, I’ll go get him. If he does…” Dean doesn’t bother to finish the sentence.

Castiel draws in a loud breath, his whole body shifting with it. And Dean, alert to everything that Cas does, feels _every_ fucking nuance of each tiny movement.

All at once, his attention flips from the potential-infected on their lawn to the lean body trapped against him. Dean feels the span of his shoulders rising on the intake, the weight of his upper back pressing against his pecs, long, tanned arms flexing into solid muscle.

And that’s only what’s happening above the waist.

With a delicate struggle in some meagre protest, Cas’ hips twist in place. It has the effect of Cas’ firm backside grazing Dean’s junk through his threadbare jogging pants. Biting down to avoid a hard-on, Dean nearly severs his bottom lip from his face.

Christ Almighty.

Half-aware that Cas has no clue about the whole inadvertent bump’n’grind, he mutters low, “We have to wait, Cas.”

‘Course, they could easily observe patience _not_ standing in a vertical cuddle. Dammit, this whole attraction thing was supposed to be done for.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Outside, the chew-toy’s already slow pace drops to nil. “Please … Is anybody there? God, help me.”

Calling out for God does not help Dean’s case. It hits them both like a fifty-pound weight. Grinding his teeth, he hunches over his friend, his arm no longer locked around to restrain the guy, but just to hold on.

In a weak voice, Cas says what’s on both their minds. “I’m supposed to help people. Heal them...”

“I know.”

Less and less of a hold ... more and more of a hug. From behind.

Totally normal.

“ _Mmng_ ,” the man outside groans in pain. “No, no, God please, please don’t let me turn. _Please, somebody_? Fuck, _ugh_ , this’ not-not how it’s supposed to be… nonono. Oh god, oh god… Don’t wanna be one of those things.” Sheer terror shakes the man’s voice, and his desperate words become unending babbles that become quieter and quieter.

Hunched over, feet dragging, the fight to survive abandons the man in one swift go. A few strained seconds pass when nothing seems to happen.

No one breathes.

And then, in a peculiar move, the guy stands up straight and looks towards the house, his hand slipping down from his neck. The chewed remains of flesh are slick with blood, glossy in the daylight. But it’s the eyes that Dean can’t turn away from. They’ve lost the pain, leaving the kind of vacancy he’s seen a lot the last couple years.

A full-bodied twitch shakes the infected from head to toe. His bloody fingers curl up into claws and a low snarl snakes through the air. Purpose of some kind has taken command of the infected and it picks up its feet, moving closer to the house.

Birds squawk in the distance and fly-off, the infected jerks its head towards the noise, up and over. Each movement choppy and quick like a scatterbrained dog.

Pulling Dean back from the horror outside is Cas’ cold hand curling around his wrist. Defeated, Cas lowers his chin onto Dean’s forearm, coarse hair from an unshaven beard scratching his skin.

“It’s not your fault,” Dean assures him. “There’s nothing we could’ve done. He was dead before he got here, Cas.”

Standing the way they are, his cheek resting against Cas’ hair, he can smell the soap that he uses—a plain soap, nothing distinctive and somehow unforgettable. Evidently out of his mind, Dean buries his nose into the mussed brown locks, like, discreetly and shit.

Ah fuck.

In the background, the infected drifts closer, its distorted moans leaving a sick feeling in the back of his throat.

Damn, he’s trapped between a horror movie and— _Christ_ —he doesn’t want to imagine the other genre. All in the past, he reminds himself.

Cas says nothing. Not about the infected. Not about the way they’re standing intimately close. And definitely doesn’t comment on the way Dean seems to be cradling him, shifting his weight to his shitty limb and back again.

“I hate watching it too.”

In the faintest of movements, Cas’ thumb drags against his skin. It’s some sort of reassurance, he’s sure. But all he wants to do is respond by holding him tighter. Maybe slip his other arm around Cas’ middle. Maybe graze his cheek against the side of Cas’ face…

Or maybe, Dean catches himself, he needs to get himself in check.

Gradually, Cas pulls back from him and turns around. His whole expression is stuck between vacant and destroyed. Dean wants to erase it.

Unfortunately, there’s no Mr. Clean for emotions.

“Give me your knife.”

Dean hesitates. Clearly, Cas isn’t in the right frame of mind to be killing anything.

“Goddammit Dean, if you go out there you could mess up your leg even more, give me the fucking knife!”

Holding back a fraction longer, Dean tries to read Cas the way he did during the game. Nothing’s showing now. Just stone cold anger.

“Fine.” Dean slides it out of the leather pocket by his hip. Cas reaches, but Dean yanks it back at the last second and gets all up in his face instead. “I know you’re damn pissed at the world, but just go out there, stab it in the face and be done with it.”

“It’s not an ‘ _it’_ Dean, he is a man. A man who’s sick.”

Dean gestures with the knife. “No, he’s not. Fucking look at the guy Cas!” He points out with his knife, his other hand grabbing Cas by the chin and wrenching his head back to face the window.

Having made it to the porch, the infected is clawing and snarling at the chipped wood columns. It’s brainless. There’s nothing human about whatever that is.

Pulling Cas’ chin back to him, Dean holds up the knife as he pins him in a stare. “Stab and done, man. That’s it.”

Ripping the knife from his hands, Cas turns and yanks the door open. His heavy boots sound loud across the old porch.

The familiar sounds reach his ears, ending in a heavy thump.

When Cas returns, he won’t meet Dean’s eyes. Instead he tosses the bloody knife into the sink with a clang and brushes past him towards the living room.

Dean grabs for his crutch and does the one-legged chase after the guy into the living room. “Hey, don’t go upstairs and mope, alright. It won’t do you any damn good.”

“Dean—” Cas breaks off, too angry to keep the words steady. “You-you have no idea what it’s like. I was built with a purpose! I was meant to keep the world whole. I was meant to fight for good, for Heaven ... not ... not this. I wasn’t meant to be here, or to have to deal with ... all of this.” Waving vaguely in the air, Dean gets the distinct impression Cas means more than putting down the infected vagabond.

Crutching his way over to the guy on the far side of the living room, Dean steadies his shoulders and tries his best to say all the right kind of words for this. “I get it. I do—trust me, man. It sucks, okay? It really fucking sucks. Some cocky dude in a white lab coat wanted to get his fucking name in Science Today and because of it, he almost killed off the whole damn planet. And we can’t do shit-all about it. You feel useless, and yeah, it really sucks.” And that sums it right up for both of them, doesn’t it.

They’d always been that type. The fight now, talk later kind. There was always a solution. And now ... they’re fighting a battle that can’t be won. Not in a way that matters.

“I could’ve healed you.” Cas looks him in the eyes. “In a microsecond. You would’ve been brand new.” A bitter smile overtakes his features.

“I’ll live. C’mon, go sit on the couch and I’ll cook you dinner.”

Cas narrows his eyes. “I’m fully capable of cooking my own dinner.”

“Duh. Not the point. Now sit your ass down and read whatever book you’re readin’.”

“The Thorn Birds.”

“Right, you go do that. And I’ll cook you up some world class canned goodness.”

⊢≬⊣

Cas stares at Dean’s back until he’s made it to the kitchen and has started banging around some pots.

Glancing towards the couch, and seeing the orange book tucked into the side by the cushion, he decides that whether he goes upstairs and feels horrible or stays down here and feels horrible doesn’t make very much difference.

Besides, the book he’s reading is captivating. Though he finds it’s quite easy to get lost in a story, the way the characters speak to you, how they come to mean something to you. Once he’s invested, he must reach the end. Do they get the happy ending so typical of storytelling? Or does it all end in tragedy?

Cas lets the written words carry him through his sense of incompetency. One sentence jumps out at him and he finds himself reading it through once, twice, and yet one more time.

_Each of us has something within us which won’t be denied._

Cas looks up to find Dean staring into the pot, the wooden spoon held loose and still in his hand—his mind distracted from his task.

Castiel’s mind drags back to before with the infected. Not the terrible sadness of it, but the other part. The part where Dean had held him. Though most of his attention had been drawn to the window, watching the slow change from man to monster, he was aware of the heat of Dean at his back. He loved the strong arm that wrapped around him, the tickle of Dean’s breath against his ear. And the loose, forgiving fabric of the grey cotton pants soft against his rear. There were no hard lines, only the soft comfort of Dean’s body shaping against his.

“Dean?”

Pulled out of some deep reverie, Dean turns towards the living room with a low hum and lifts his eyebrows.

“Thank you ... for earlier.”

With a small nod, Dean rubs down his face and starts moving about the kitchen with a lot of purpose.

That night, he sleeps on the couch with Dean six feet away and resists the urge to brush his hand across the beginnings of an erection. It’s like an itch. One swipe to relieve the discomfort would only turn into a longer drag of the heel of his palm, maybe a disguised scratch after that.

Reaffirming his stance of ignoring his feelings, Castiel twists his legs below the knit blanket and mentally encourages his hardened sex to go soft.

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

Startled awake by the door slamming, Dean bolts up and stares into the kitchen. Cas has been gone for hours and he’s finally back.

Albeit, covered in blood and looking half-dead.

“My god, what the hell happened to you?”

“I was hunting.”

Dean stares hard. Hunting what?

Evidently the question showed on his face. “Hunting animals. I’m sick of canned goods.”

“You hunted? And killed something?”

“Yes, even though you think I’m so awful at it. I shot a deer and its outside and if you stop staring at me like that I might even let you eat some.”

It’s an uphill battle to resist pulling a Homer Simpson and start drooling on the floor. Instead, he swallows back some saliva and says, “Deer? For real?”

“Yes. Can you help me with it? You’re always looking for something to do and since my back hurts I need a hand.”

Fuck yes. “I’ll throw on a sweater and meet you outside in a sec.”

The promise of meat has Dean borderline delirious. He would skip if his leg wasn’t still healing. Throwing on a thick red sweater and shoving his feet into some boots he makes his way out onto the porch.

Oh no.

“You shot Bambi, dude!”

“I don’t know who Bambi is, but if you don’t want any meat, feel free to open up the can of tuna I’d originally planned on giving you.”

“Nevermind. K, give me the knife and I’ll get to work.”

It tells him how beat Cas is, and sore, that he hands off the blade without a fight. Normally, the guy makes sure the hardest thing that Dean does in a day is put wood into the stove.

He’s not as fast as Josh at this, and doesn’t enjoy doing it. But damn does it feel good to be doing something.

It’s late by the time they’ve managed to cook up a few pieces and the rest of the deer is hanging in the barn in a plastic tarp.

Each hour that ticks by he watches Cas move around and takes note of the minimal range of motion going on.

“What’d ya do?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re walking around like you took a beating. Did you?”

Throwing him a sarcastic look, Cas answers, “I carried a hundred-pound animal for two hours, that’s what I did.”

Dean lets the conversation drop and takes their plates into the kitchen leaving Cas on the couch in an awkward straight-backed position.

Okay, he could help here. But there’s the whole past been knockin’ on the door thing. Best not to tempt that sleeping beast.

With his back to the living room, he catches the faintest whimper. Goddammit—

“Alright man, here’s what's gonna happen: You’re gonna take that ugly ass yellow pillow and toss it on the floor in front of the couch. Then you’re going to sit on it.”

“How is that supposed to help?”

“Just fucking do it.”

Moving slow and gingerly, Cas does what he’s asked. When he’s finally settled, legs crossed at the ankles in front of him, Dean slides in behind him on the couch, legs spread on either side of Cas’ shoulders.

Talk about the world's worst idea ever. Well, maybe second, next to the plague and everything.

“Um, Dean?”

“Shut up. Not one word to Sam, or Josh ever. And definitely not Ray. My god, I’d never hear the end of it.”

At that, he places his hands on Cas’ tense shoulders. Christ, the muscles are hard as rocks and hot to the touch. No wonder he’s been sporting that constant look of agony, fucking guy’s in spasms.

Pressing deep with his thumbs near the curve of his shoulder blades, Dean works at the stiff muscle and tries to detach from the fact that it’s Cas tucked in between his legs.

Of course, Cas has to go and moan so deep with relief that Dean almost tosses his head back and echoes the guy.

He clears his throat instead. “Feel better?”

“Don’t _ever_ stop doing that.”

Laughing, Dean watches Cas’ head hinge forward, exposing the back of his neck. Dean takes the opportunity and strokes his fingers up hard, kneading the tendons and soft lines.

“Why don’t people do this all the time?” asks the man at his mercy, voice amusingly muffled.

“I don’t know—’Cause it would be weird.”

“Mm. Not weird. Awesome.”

Dean agrees but doesn’t see the point in verbalizing it. Locking up all his former too-friendly thoughts about the guy, he approaches the task like a job. Dude’s in pain and needs relief. That’s all this is.

So what if he has one of those dreams again. It’s been years. Could anyone blame him? Cas had careened into his life like a fucking thunderstorm. A man can’t control what he’s attracted to. Christ, Dean’s been turned on by the occasional cartoon—and he never spent a moment over-analyzing that.

Yeah, so it’s kinda wrong now that the guy’s no longer some big bad angel, and is like, his friend and whatnot.

Right, right. Massaging.

⊢≬⊣

There must be poetry that exists somewhere to explain this sensation. Each deep drag of Dean’s fingers brings such paramount relief, he can’t help but sag forward.

It gets so bad at one point that his face is nearly touching his legs. Dean has to grab his shoulders and pull him back.

Moans periodically leave his mouth, and yet, it feels so incredible that he doesn’t care.

They seem to sit there for a very long time. Long enough that, despite the cushion, his ass starts to hurt.

Dean’s stroking down his back, one hand on either side of his spine, and on each return trip, those same strong hands slip towards his sides and glide back up. It pulls his shirt an inch or two each time, baring his skin.

There’s a crackle of sound behind him and he realizes Dean is trying to get words out but his voice is breaking up. After clearing his throat, he tries again, “Uh…”

Cas feels like a slug when he responds, “Hmm?”

“It might, uh, feel better—”

Cutting his words off with a curse, Dean starts pulling his shirt all the way up. Eight cups of coffee would not have done a better job at making him alert more than Dean taking off his clothes.

Any response freezes in his throat and he lets Dean shove the shirt over his head. It’s a wonder that he manages to take over at that point and untangle the cotton from his arms.

When Dean’s hands move back into place, now smooth and hot on his skin, he tenses up all over again and the earlier spasms hover on the brink of return. Not that he plans to protest this turn of events.

It _does_ feel better.

Somehow, miraculously, the tightness drains from his muscles, his arms hanging limp in his lap. The weight of his head sags forward; his whole body susceptible to Dean’s efforts—swaying from side to side.

More subtle than a whisper, the atmosphere turns listless. He’s grown tired but he notices. Dean’s using less pressure and each rub across his skin is slower than it was. Sporadic pauses interrupt the flow of the massage and Cas can’t figure out what’s happening until on one such pause, he catches the dim sound of a snore.

Getting up off the floor proves to more difficult than he thought. And he’s got no idea how long he’s been there.

Every part of him is equally pliant and aching. Casting his low-lidded eyes to the couch, he finds Dean bent over, elbows on his knees, head low between his shoulders.

Mind blank of anything but the thought of a bed, he methodically maneuvers Dean so he’s laying across the couch, covers him with a blanket and picks up his shirt from the floor.

Walking up the stairs, he hears Dean murmur, “Mmm ... on top.”

Stopping mid-step, he looks over the railing and wonders, ‘ _On top of what?_ ’ Maybe he’ll remember to ask Dean in the morning.

When his head finally hits the pillow, his last thought lingers on the feel of Dean’s hands melting him into a sublime state.

Josh was right. Massages _are_ amazing.

 

The next day, it’s almost hard to believe Dean is the same man.

When he asks what Dean would prefer to eat, the reply is, “I don’t care.”

And every other thing out of his mouth from the time they wake up is curt, dismissive and, frankly, starting to piss him off.

“What’s your problem?” he finally asks around mid-afternoon.

“I need to get out of this damn house, alright? I’m going fuckin’ stir-crazy.”

Glancing up from his book, he angles over his shoulder to pry up part of the boarding on the large window. Outside, the wind is angry and the entire landscape looks cold.

“It’s not very good weather.”

“Ugh, I don’t care,” drones Dean. “Enough with the handle-with-care crap! I’m not incapable of taking care of myself. Where’d you put the shotgun?”

Cas closes his book and tucks it beside the couch cushion. “Why?”

“Because I’m going for a damn walk, is that a problem, Mr. Babysitter?!”

“Dean, why are you acting this way?” Being cooped up and antsy is one thing, but there has to be something else under the surface. Cas knows Dean well enough.

Jaw flexing, Dean stands up and snags his crutch off the cot. Rounding back on Cas, he settles for a hard stare, letting only one word pass through his tight lips. “Shotgun.”

Sam had warned him of exactly this. After the last week, he foolishly thought that maybe Dean would be different with him.

Apparently not. “We don’t have very many shells.”

Dean keeps the stare going.

“The cupboard by the kitchen door.”

Hearing the hard round foot of the crutch pound across the floor is more annoying in that moment than it has been before.

After several minutes of staring into space, coming up with no answers on how to correct Dean’s mood without making things worse, he decides to clean.

In the process of putting the house in order; cleaning dishes, wiping off the counters, and straightening the sheets and comforter on the cot, he’s on his way to the stairs when something under the couch hooks his attention.

Going to his knees and hands, he lowers his face to the carpet and peers into the shadows below the furniture, finding that the thing that caught his eye is a bunched pair of jogging pants.

Notably, the thin grey ones Dean had on yesterday.

Dean isn’t exactly the tidiest of people, but he doesn’t normally shove his clothes under the furniture instead of throwing them in the basket they have by the bathroom. Maybe they were kicked there by accident.

Reaching in, Castiel pulls them out, turning them over in his hands on the way to the bathroom—intending to drop them in with everything else that he plans to wash in the tub when there’s enough to warrant the tedious activity.

Just as he’s balling them up to throw them across the kitchen his fingers skirt over a stiff patch of fabric on the otherwise ultra-soft cotton. When he looks down, it takes a good twelve seconds to put the pieces together.

Oh.

Now he understands why Dean shoved them out of sight. Not that Dean’s ever been shy before about these kind of things. Perhaps it’s another facet of the mood he’s in.

About to put them in with the laundry anyway, he reconsiders at the last second. If he washes them, Dean will know he’s washed them. Meaning, he’ll know that Cas found them in the first place.

Going back to the living room, he lowers to the floor and puts them back. Not that he’ll ever sit on this couch again without thinking about the fact that Dean has left clothes under it covered in his semen.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Closing in on December, Castiel reaches the end of his patience with Dean.

His injured friend has gotten to a point where every single thing seems to agitate him. Which happens to include Castiel.

The calm serenity that marked the first few weeks in the farmhouse wanes with rapid momentum, and before the first snow has fallen, Dean is snapping at every goddamn thing that he does. For whatever reason, Dean’s decided that Castiel will be his outlet for the irritation of being stuck in one place for an inordinate amount of time.

It doesn’t matter whether Dean is reading, or singing, or eating, or any damn thing, he’s always objectionable and rude. It’s been wearing on Cas.

They’re hanging around after dinner one night when Dean suddenly throws a book across the room. “I’m fucking losing my mind!”

Cas inhales deep. “Write in your journal,” he suggests.

“I already did that today! And my leg is fucking killing me from tripping over those fucking rocks out front. You move those yet? I gotta be able to walk around or I’m gonna fire some lead into my skull.”

The tripping incident had happened two weeks ago when the first of several outbursts had begun.

“Yes. I moved them. Take a nap then.” Since you’ve evidently done everything else.

“I can’t take a frigging nap! All I ever do is sit around. In order to nap, I need to be tired, in order to be tired I need to burn some energy. And to burn energy, I need to be able to fucking move. But I can’t move because I fucking ran off a goddamn building. _Fuck!_ ”

Holding his anger deep, Cas rubs across his face. “What do you want me to say Dean? You never take my suggestions. You just sit around and complain all day.”

A hard breath tears out between Dean’s lips and his cheeks flare red. “Complain all day!? Well I’m _soooo_ fucking sorry for annoying you. God, all you do is read and move around and you never get worked up over anything. You never get upset or bored or have any fucking emotional reaction ever. Christ, sometimes I wonder if you’re really human at all.” Dean’s rant cuts off and he starts off towards the stairs, stewing.

The blatant accusation that Cas is emotionless and not even human is the last straw. “I’m going out for supplies, I’ll be back.”

Cas rushes out of the house, and he’s barely crossed the short lawn when the burn in his face forms into tears that well over the rims of his eyes. He keeps walking and walking, even though he can barely see through his blurred vision. Crying is so inordinately stupid. Not only are his eyes clogging up with water, but his nose is stuffy and his throat aches.

Knowing that Dean doesn’t mean what he says and believing that he doesn’t mean what he says are two different concepts and he’s struggling hard with the latter. Goddammit, all he’s ever done is try to protect Dean. How could his friend possibly think, even for a second, even if he’s angry, that Cas is without emotion? The truth is laughable. He’s overrun with emotion. He’s drowning in it!

Using the back of his hand, he wipes across his cheeks and wipes his nose with his sleeve. His breath hitches as the crying takes a turn towards what he can only define as sobbing. It’s not fair. He doesn’t want to react this way. It just, it hurts… It _hurts._ More than it should.

A while later, stumbling across another farm a ways off from their place, he pushes in the door that’s already busted off the frame and goes for the first piece of comfortable furniture. An old recliner, soft and rose-coloured. It smells like cigarette smoke when he sits down. He doesn’t like the smell but he’s worked up enough that he doesn’t care. As he sits and pathetically allows the tears to flow free, he can feel the temperature creep lower around him. Time goes on and on and he eventually loses track of how long he’s been there.

At some point, he falls asleep curled in the chair, shivering under a musty blanket. Not one dream comes to him that night.

Just before dawn, Cas wakes, his eyes puffy, his throat thick and even after all that release of crying, his heart still aches.

His body feels old as he stands out of the chair, walking over the short living room to the front door, intentions to get back to Dean.

Stepping through the front entrance, his eyes shoot wide as he sees Dean standing at the foot of the porch. He’s shaking from head to toe, his face pale with the exception of red cheeks and nose, and lips that are nearly blue.

"Dean!" Cas runs over, grabbing for him. "What the hell are you doing out here?"

"L-looking f-f-for y-you," his friend chatters. It’s scary to see Dean’s eyelids hang low, his body swaying.

Every instinct tells him to wrap Dean in his arms, but at the same time he’s still pissed. For once, he lets his anger and sadness call the shots.

Gripping Dean’s arm and wrenching it around his neck, swearing under his breath, Cas starts walking off, taking as much of Dean’s weight as he can. The whole trip back he practically drags Dean alongside him.

He’s sure that, for Dean, it’s not a fun walk back.

In fact, it seems to drag on forever, and eventually Dean warms up enough to speak. "I'm sorry I've been an ass lately," he apologizes. “I just ... I needed ... distance.”

Hearing that, Cas’ lip starts to shake. Not sure if he’s pissed or on the verge of more tears, he says nothing. It’s probably smart to keep his mouth shut at this point.

When they finally reach the house, Cas shoves Dean back on the cot and mutters, "Fucking go to bed, Dean. Just go to bed."

Not looking back to see if Dean is truly okay, he heads towards the stairs and jogs up. Back in his room of sorts, his eyes land on the bed. Pale, early morning light streaks through the old window panes and stripes across the quilt. They haven’t been here long, but it’s still the longest he’s ever spent anywhere. Crawling into that bed, he knows he’ll find comfort.

Castiel turns back and closes the door. The fire downstairs still lingers, making it warm enough that he can get rid of the damp clothes. Peeling one layer after another feels like a greater weight is slipping off.

Sliding under the covers with nothing touching his skin but the beige sheet, he remembers that Dean had said he’d needed distance. Not Cas. But that Dean had. Somehow it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.

But he’s tired and the cold is still a presence below his skin. Spending a whole night being upset is more than enough.

Now, he wants to sleep. And if it so happens that he doesn’t go downstairs all day, what’s so terrible about that?

Maybe they both need space.

For very different reasons, he thinks.

⊢≬⊣

Goddammit. He fucked up.

That’s what happens when you let your guard down. The past comes marching on back, bringing those ridiculous fantasies right along with it.

After the massage had gone down a couple weeks back, Dean had woken on the couch in the middle of a convulsive orgasm. What a throwback to the early nineties. Everything he’d been hoping to avoid over the course of this winter was starting to roar. That damn triple-x dream had woken the beast.

And, oh fuck. What a dream.

It had started with Cas going all hardass on him and saying that if he wanted some venison he’d have to bend over the table for it. Okay, so yeah, it was basically the opening plot of a porn video. Dean is shameless.

And in that dream, what did he do? Bent right over is what ... gave it all up to the best friend.

Waking up midway through his orgasm, unloading into his jogging pants was the regrettable part of all that. And of course, the realization that he was letting an old attraction fuck up his friendship was something he’d have to nip in the bud.

Men don’t give other men massages. Unless they’re fucking. Which he and Cas are not.

Rookie mistake.

From then on, he’s been trying to be his normal annoying self. It’s easy, he’s had plenty of practice with Sam.

On the plus side, it worked. Is _still_ working. Working so well, in fact, that Cas jumped ship the other day, leaving him for a whole fucking night!

Oh, and that’s not even the worst of it. The guy spent the night crying. From the second Cas stepped out onto the porch, Dean knew. Between the swollen, red-rimmed eyes, the splotchy skin, and overall look of pain—it hit him like Ray’s slap.

All of this, because Dean tried to dial back on his own twisted perversions to keep their friendship clean and untainted.

Riiiight. Clean like those fucking jogging pants shoved under the couch.

Every minute since, he’s tried to be helpful, courteous, polite in a way that doesn’t bring them close. He can feel the shaky ground they’re on.

Other than royally pissing Cas off and upsetting the guy, Dean did manage to surgically remove the sexual tension that had built up in his balls, and he’s not bored anymore.

‘Course he feels like shit twenty-four / seven.

As Cas was all up in his face before about doing anything laborious, he’s reluctant to offer his help, but he does. Anything he can do to make amends.

It sucks that the more he tries to help out, the more zapped he gets. All the energy he had before seems to be gone. Figures. In lieu of work, and in an attempt to avoid a repeat of Cas taking off to cry, Dean takes naps during the day to give the ex-angel some alone time. Besides, he's been tired.

Dean Winchester isn’t one for the drama.

Turns out, it’s not the essence of high school that’s had him rocking Z’s on the cot every day for a solid three hours. It’s the mother of all colds. He actually wakes up shivering, wondering for minute if Cas has forgotten to stock the fire.

But then he swallows. And it’s like tacks glued to sandpaper moving down his throat. This god-awful lump of scratchy pain from the depths of hell. Moving to roll over, he catches himself halfway there and groans. It hurts _everywhere._

When another chill sweeps through him under three blankets, he lets out a shameless whine and bites down on the urge to pray up to his mom.

Concerned blue eyes and a dark head of hair come to lean over him. "Dean? Are you okay?"

Dean moans, dreading having to speak with his throat feeling the way it does. "Got a cold," he mutters succinctly. And even that little bit of speech makes him wince.

A wonderfully dry, cool palm lands on his forehead, his eyes slip closed, letting the sweet comfort pull him back from what feels like the brink of death. And yes, it does feel exactly like that.

"You're very warm." Cas says in a way that Dean can picture the familiar frown in his mind.

He agrees with a moan, not wanting to speak.

Cas makes him soup, which he eats sitting on the cot, his nose stuffed to the point of being utterly useless. Over the course of the day, his throat hurts less, but worsens again in the evening. The fever comes back hard; a never ending too-cold, too-hot carnival ride that he would love to get off.

And what’s with the skin? Christ, he feels like he’s taken a bad dose of _E_. If anything touches him, it hurts.

"You shouldn't have stood outside the other night." Cas scolds, that deep voice filtering down from somewhere above.

When did he wind up horizontal? Dean’s sure he spent the day sitting.

Opening one eye, he glances up to see Cas’ face bent over him. Whatever is serving as his pillow keeps moving, and it's distracting from the hair playing that’s going on.

Oh, wait, the moving things are Cas’ legs.

This is probably one of those activities that he should put a kibosh on.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

Dean Winchester is getting some wicked hair playing, and if that means his ear is serving as a cock-hat…

So be it.

⊢≬⊣

The next morning Dean hardly wakes. Cas starts to legitimately worry, seeing all that flushed skin. Most colds take care of themselves, he's sure of it. But even after two days, the fever hasn’t broken and it must be quite high because the man’s skin is burning up.

And starting early that morning, inarticulate mumbles have been moving past his lips. Countless times, he's witnessed Dean injured and out of it, but of course he'd been an angel back then and took care of things. Without the luxury and ease of his powers, he has to find some other way to nurse his friend back to health.

It's risky to leave him like this, but Sam and Dean taught him a lot over the last two years. Penicillin, they've said before, takes care of a lot of ailments. Or even just cough medicine would probably help, something to bring the fever down. He debates for longer than necessary, but finally decides he needs to give Dean something.

It's still early morning when he's getting ready to leave. The sun is out and provides some warmth. He sees that Dean has been sweating and pulls the blankets down to tug the man's damp t-shirt off. Grabbing a wet cloth from the kitchen, he comes back to find Dean shivering and starts wiping the sweat from his chest, back, and neck. He wraps Dean in several blankets, stocks the fire, and takes off.

They'd searched the farms before; painkillers and first-aid stuff had been rounded up, Dean going through the former a lot in the first few weeks with his leg. It takes more concerted efforts to find anything useful this time.

When Castiel finally makes it back to the farmhouse, sometime towards dinner, he's got animal-grade penicillin—which Sam had mentioned once works just fine—and some liquid cold medicine that is supposed to break fevers.

On the cot, he finds Dean tossing, turning, mumbling in discomfort. The one sheet left on him is twisted around his body, damp with perspiration. Castiel unravels him, and then tries to coax him awake enough to take some of the penicillin which is conveniently in a mouth-injector device. He shoves the thing in Dean's slack mouth and squirts the liquid back towards his throat, making him cough.

Being an angel would have made this task so much easier. Dean is a very heavy man when he's a lump of dead-weight. So it takes fifteen minutes and a lot of exertion on Cas' part to get Dean changed out of his sweaty boxers and jogging pants. He's not sure if he should put more clothes on since Dean keeps sweating anyway. He ultimately decides not to. It was hard enough getting the two garments off, he can't imagine trying to put clothes on.

The damp sheet is tossed to the side and new blankets from upstairs are brought down and wrapped around the man he used to fight an apocalypse with. It seems odd that this is where they’re at. This world is still so new to all of them. And Cas has never had to deal with this kind of thing before. He's worried, but Dean has survived so much that he hardly expects a cold will be the thing that finally kills Dean Winchester. And certainly not on his watch.

Three hours later, while Cas is sitting in the big chair pulled close to the cot, Dean rolls over and mumbles.

"Are you awake?" Castiel wonders out loud, leaning over the arm of the chair, looking down at Dean's head, whose hair is matted and greasy. Dean's face is still a deep shade of pinkish red, the fever still hanging around.

"Ugh, mm'so tired…" Dean grouses, his eyes opening and closing. The man sniffs loudly and he instantly coughs, and coughs some more. Cas reaches back to the other side of the chair and grabs the mostly still full bottle of cold medicine and passes it back to Dean.

"Here, this will help."

Though he’s groggy, Dean manages to snag the thing and upend the bottle taking a couple gulps before sagging back towards the wall, looking sideways at Cas as he hands it back.

Watching Dean's sleepy, red puffed face intently, he notices when the confusion spreads across it. "Cas?" Dean asks strangely, sounding exponentially more alert.

"Yes, Dean?"

"Why am I naked?"

"Oh, right. You perspired through all of your clothes so I removed them." Cas explains.

Dean's lips pucker and he nods. "Yeah, that makes sense."

After the sun has set, and Dean is dosed with a mix of cold medicine and old Scotch Castiel had found, he decides to show Dean what else he'd found. Actually, he'd found it a few days ago, but has been too upset with Dean to show him.

The constant slating and snapping from Dean, for no reason whatsoever, had gotten to be too much. It surely hadn't helped that he’s inundated with complex feelings where Dean’s concerned. For that reason, the rudeness and anger seemed to cause him greater pain.

There are many emotions he can recognize and put a name to, but the way Dean makes him feel goes beyond language and into the intangible. The truth is, in a vague sense, he understands. Not that he’s able to work through this knowledge towards any kind of solution or internal remediation. Denial and ignorance had taken hold of him in the beginning and he’d tried to place their relationship into a neat-box labelled: A brotherly closeness, or dear friends, or as he'd once said long ago, a profound bond.

But those labels never quite fit. They still don’t. The longer he’s human, the more he feels the nuances of emotion, as if they grow stronger each day. Scouring his brain for proper labels, words and definitions run through his mind.

There’s a solution to all this suffering, he’s sure.

Distracted, he mutters to Dean that he has a surprise and heads upstairs to get the old stereo, repeating definitions to himself as he walks up the steps: _An intense feeling of deep affection; A person ideally suited to another; A feeling of deep romantic or sexual attachment to someone_.

Castiel pauses at the top of the stairs as the last definition rings through his head. He considers it, recalling a few choice nights over the last two years, and even a few times before that when he definitely felt something along those lines. Not always an emotion. More of an awakening, his body coming to life; a calm, curious energy that both excited and terrified him.

Castiel isn’t stupid.

Though he may not possess a suitable definition for the pandemonium of emotions, he knows what it all means. God knows he wishes he was still in the dark about it all.

Which is precisely why he's been ignoring it as much and as often as he possibly can. It's also why he hardly ever masturbates, not—as Dean thinks—because he doesn't know how, but because he knows exactly the best way to get himself off, and that might be in poor taste if the person that ignites said arousal is also the person you have to share a room or a tent with twenty minutes later.

In fact, masturbating after he’d helped Dean get in the bath had been the first time he’d touched himself for pleasure in months.

By the time he returns to the living area, with the long, black stereo in his arms, he's found his earlier good mood has died off. All these thoughts on unrequited longing makes him bitter, and for once, he understands why Dean fled to the bars in times of agony and hardship.

Maybe tonight will have to be one of those rare nights. Considering they sleep on separate floors, why shouldn’t he indulge in a few moments alone? Surrendering to a daydream, and succumbing to the striking disorientation of an orgasm is an excellent plan for later.

Besides, it doesn't have to be about Dean. Of course it will. But it doesn’t _have_ to be.

Dean sees the stereo and fist-pumps into the air. "Oh my god! Really? Where the hell did you find this? Does it work!?"

Cas places it on top of the old TV near Dean's chair. Luckily, he'd found batteries too. He's already figured out how the thing works and has a tape ready to go. "I located it a few days ago," he replies.

"And you're just busting it out now! C'mon, Cas!"

The former angel glares at Dean, because the man knows exactly why Cas hasn't brought it out until now. The look shuts Dean up, so Cas hits play and goes to sit on the couch. He keeps it low, because even though they've had to deal with few infected since the rest of their group left, it doesn’t mean there won't be more ... or worse. And they are not equipped to deal with Raiders. The volume stays low.

The first song is slow, a piano starting things off. It's a woman. Dean groans immediately, "Frickin’ Mandy Moore!"

"Who?" Castiel wonders, unsure why the pleasant woman's voice bothers him.

Dean closes his eyes. "This was a chick's mixed tape—Guaranteed!" Dean asks then if Cas had found any others, and no, he had not. This one had been labelled, 'Amy's Slow Mix'. When he tells Dean, the man reaches for the bottle of medicine and takes a swig, chasing that with the alcohol.

"Better than nothing, I suppose," Dean relents, humming along to the song he says he hates and yet still knows every word. Castiel finds it odd, but the low music is a welcome interruption for them both—especially considering how strained things have been with only each other for company.

With Cas being tormented by the trials of being human and loving someone, and Dean being, well, a jerk is putting it bluntly.

When the first song ends, the next begins with a symphony of drums and Dean's eyes light up, "Okay Cas, you're redeemed— _This romeo is bleedin' ... but you can’t see his blood!"_ Dean starts singing with gusto, his hand shooting up into the air and Cas can tell that he’s getting drunk, if not already there.

" _…You see I've always been a fighter, but without you, I give up_ …"

Enthralled, he watches Dean really get into it, his voice gaining volume and fervour. He can't help but smile.

Though part of the reason he can’t look away is because Dean is still one-hundred percent naked.

As the song continues, the singer's rough voice melds well with Dean's; a deep, smooth harmony of sound that eases him. That is until certain lyrics begin to make Castiel uncomfortable.

" _I'll be there till the stars don't shine, till the Heaven's burst, till the words don't rhyme_." Dean looks right at him as he continues, " _And when I die, you'll be on my mind, and I'll love you ... Always_."

It's probably not a coincidence that Dean gets up then, murmuring about having to take a leak, even though he went less than an hour ago. The song keeps playing and Castiel can't wait for it to change to something else.

 

At least, when Dean returns, he’s thrown on a pair of jogging pants. That makes things moderately more tolerable.

 

 

**  
**


	15. Chapter 15

Dean is absolutely shit-faced.

Whatever sickness he’s got, the cough medicine, and the unchecked amount of booze Cas let him have are all combining in a superfabulous way. Every song that plays now sounds great.

Really, _really_ great.

It all makes so much sense to him as he moves his arms in the air, through his hair, singing as loud as he can. Cas is watching him, amused, some shadow of worry hanging in the background of his blue stare.

Even through the haze of being all ... swirly and wasted, he can't stop thinking about Cas leaving him the other night. God, what if something had happened? Does Cas not realize how important he is? Yes, so Dean was an asshole, but he’d die if something happened to Cas.

Maybe he’ll have to live with fantasies. Put a hold on his plan to put distance between them.

Dean sings louder, " _And all I can taste is this moment, and all I can breathe is your life. When sooner or later, it's over, I just don't wanna miss you tonight_." Pfft. Tonight? Try ever.

Amy, Amy, he praises, good picks, girl. The drunker Dean gets, the more he lets those old, fantasies unravel. Hmm, he considers, looking at his friend, not so much in the past now, huh? Dammit, Dean, he drunkenly chastises, get your head together. Cas is your best friend, nothing more.

Sadly, no one bothers to tell his traitorous stare or rampant porn-brain. His drunken eyes roam up and down the body on the couch, all sorts of right-and-wrong filters getting all confused by the substances he's hammered back.

Friggin’ hell. Why can’t Cas be sitting there ten shades of fugly? Instead, the ex-winger is wearing those same damn jogging pants that Mr. Farmer Joe had eight billion pairs of, right in the middle of the damn couch—ass probably a foot and a half above Dean’s come-stained pj’s hidden under the furniture. Long, perfect fingers resting on his muscular thighs, blue eyes watching Dean with the kind of intensity that should be illegal.

That is, if there was still some kind of legal system.

One song blends into the next and he finds the end of the tape is more sultry than the former high-school slow dance material, and he wonders if Amy used to get jiggy with it to this tape. Dean can’t stop the sad, morose laugh that blurts out of him, thinking about all the young girls that never got to make their first sex tape. All the dances that will never happen.

Except this one. Right now. Dean Winchester is gonna do this tape proud.

Swaggering on one foot, a hand resting on the TV beside the stereo, Dean stands up. Sort of. Bolstered by the song playing low and the old desires running wild, he reaches up to rub at his chest.

It feels good, that firm rub over his sternum, and so he keeps at it. Drunkenly swaying and touching his pecs, reaching across to squeeze the shoulder that feels tight, up the column of his neck, soothing the aches from being comatose on the cot for hours.

Dean watches Cas’ eyes shift to follow every move he makes. This feels like a dream. Is it, he wonders.

The room sways the longer Cas stares at him.

The song up next is jazzy, smooth and undeniably sexy. Dean’s focus wavers, eyes roaming around the room in a drunken haze. Every inch of him feels light and heavy at the same time and he knows it's only a little while until he passes out. Especially now that he's at the point where, if he closes his eyes for a second, the room spins like a carnival ride operated by a homeless drunk.

Again, he can’t help but think he’s dreaming. Something about being watched is making him tingly, and those fantasies he’s tried to ignore? Well, Dean’s damn sure they just kicked down a door inside his mind.

A surge of arousal ripples through him and the temptation of things he's wanted comes storming in for attention.

"Dean," Cas mutters in warning.

He can't figure out why until he realizes he's moved on from his chest to somewhere south of the border...

Oh, god, that feels _goooood_!

Licking his lips, Dean continues to stroke himself. Stopping isn’t on the menu. Besides, why the fuck would he redlight a dream? Seeing Cas dominating the middle of that couch like he’s ready for a show has got Dean sweating in every crevice.

It gets worse. Particularly when the former angel's hand twitches and he shifts like he's all uncomfortable in his clothes.

The fever makes a triumphant appearance; his body flushing with heat, beads of sweat starting to roll over his skin. For some stupid reason it makes him so goddamned horny.

Stumbling over to the couch, bold with the freedom inherent of a dream, he squeezes the thick erection he has through his pants. The feeling’s incredible. His best friend's eyes widen as he towers over, a hand bracing on the back of the couch, his knuckles scraping the wood that boards the large window.

It's been a long time since he's had a dream this vivid, and he's rock-hard, tenting his thin pants, massaging his cock with intense desperation, leaning over the dream version of his friend. He's groaning in ragged streams, staring down into Cas' too-blue eyes.

God, even in the dark they're bright, it doesn’t make sense. How can anyone restrain themselves against something so captivating?

The broken leg is no bother in the delusion, and he lowers a knee onto the edge of the couch, listing in a jerk to the side before he rights himself. Slipping his right leg between Cas' parted knees, he moves in closer. Close enough to the feel the heat radiating out. A thick exhale blows out of his mouth when his dick swells thicker in his grasp. God, he wants to yank his pants off and touch himself bare but he doesn't and he can’t figure out what’s holding him back. A buzz tickles his skin from his nipples to his thighs, and maybe that's the fever, but he can feel it deep in his veins, straight shooting to his groin.

The weight of his body leaning on his arm is too much, and he sinks deeper, crowding over this fuzzy version of his best friend. Those blue eyes are barely open as they watch him, only a couple inches away and Dean could dip down and probe that hot mouth with his tongue if he wanted but it takes ninety percent of his concentration to keep standing. The other ten is routed to the movement of his hand.

Dean feels the height of arousal stretch him out, his toes curling, his muscles straining. He chases his orgasm, a wild unstoppable need to release. He doesn’t care that it's wrong to dream this. His cock’s pulsing and jerking, and each rough drag of his hand over the thin jogging pants leaves him panting. He wants to crest ... to tumble over and feel those spasms of sheer bliss. All the while with Cas' heated eyes watching him come.

What an awesome dream. Holy fuck, this is good. Somehow better than being bent over the kitchen table.

A movement below snags his focus, and peering down between them he sees the way Cas is clawing at the couch, the way his other hand is fisted and digging into the edge of his hip ... so close to where Dean knows it would feel way the fuck better.

Might as well lend a hand.

Releasing his grip on himself with a whimper, he reaches down and rubs the entire length of the thick outline that those damn jogging pants do _nothing_ to cover. Curling his fingers around Cas’ erection, he can feel the plump weight, the detailed ridge at the crown, and lower ... stretching the fabric so he can palm the tight sac before stroking back up over everything, eyes rolling back into his head.

No dream has ever been as great as this. That thick ridge of flesh feels so goddamned real. Every kick in his grip sends him right to the edge.

"Dean?" Cas croaks out, his head falling back to gaze up through heavy lidded eyes, his hips shifting up, over and over again.

"S'okay, babe, no rules ‘n dreams…" Dean slurs, licking his lips. "Hmm, touch me," he whines.

There's a brief second where Cas jerks away, but he's backed against the couch and has nowhere to go, "De—”

"God, just touch me ... I need to come, Cas ... _Touch me_. Fuck." He whimpers again, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip to brace against the strain of roaring arousal that’s peaked to the point of pain. An aching that makes his head throb and his skin tight. His vision’s starting to fade, and he needs to come so bad.

"Cas, babe, touch me ... please, I need it."

It actually hurts now, and half of him wants to finish himself off to relieve the discomfort, but for the life of him, he can’t willingly pull away. Cas is so damn hot, working up into his fist. His best friend’s cock is firm and hot, even through the fabric. Trapped inside his grip, the thick sex hops and strains for more. Dean drags his thumb up over the ridge, tracing the shape. He needs to remember this somehow.

On one good squeeze, Cas’ eyes slam shut and he shoves up with a defeated moan, hips pushing hard against Dean’s fist.

Cas reaches between them and grabs Dean, fingers settling firm and tight around his shaft. Even with the jogging pants in the way, Dean cries out. His head starts to spin, the hazy dream slipping free.

A little longer … he’s so close.

White spots start to dance into his vision and he could care less. Moving slow and light, Cas touches him in a way that makes him grind his teeth, ready to sob for more.

He doesn’t go that far, but the wanton moan that escapes is pretty damn close.

“Harder, wanna feel you, hmm, come on," he rushes out, pressing his hips forward.

The torturous rhythm of Cas' hand on his cock gets faster, rubbing fiercely over the cotton pants. And the way Cas is doing it traps Dean's cock against his pelvis and it's making him wild, panting, and jerking Cas in return with a kind of fury.

The image of the room recedes and he's only aware of the touch, and the eyes fixed on him. Feels so good, so close, he thinks, staring down.

Cas' eyes flare wide with surprise.

In a flash, the familiar face freezes into the picture of ecstasy; wide mouth parted in an 'o', eyes blinking rapidly, and then a warm wetness soaks through onto Dean's hand—and it's never felt so real before. He's made Cas finish in dreams countless times, but not eye-to-eye like this.

Never like this.

That’s some sort of violation of the rules, implying he wanted more than a quick release. This is only the symptoms of attraction, he tells himself. That’s it.

It can't mean more than that. It can _never_ mean more than that.

_Oh god._

_But what if it does?_

A strange peace crashes over him, his vision going black and it feels like his pelvis is exploding with awesome. On the heels of sensation so intense that it seems to have blinded him, he drifts back into a deeper sleep.

 

 ****  
****  



	16. Chapter 16

_"But what if it does?”_

Dean’s slurred question from the night before hangs around Castiel’s thoughts the next morning.

The curious words uttered seconds before Dean shuddered and ejaculated against his hand, come spurting through a gap in the elastic waistband. And then Dean collapsed on top of him. Very heavy and awkward. A whole mess of legs and arms, Dean's chest smashing him in the face.

If Castiel concentrates, he can remember the scent of Dean’s release.

Holding a warm coffee in his hand, he runs over the events from last night again. Cause maybe this time he’ll figure it out. It’s only been three hours and as many cups of coffee. The latter causing his heart to beat erratically. Though, it wouldn’t surprise him if Dean was partly to blame for that.

Alright. Number one, Dean had been drunk, very drunk. But had it been enough for him to imagine himself in a dream? And second, what does it mean if Dean’s dreaming about him? Facing the facts, Cas knows that Dean might not care who’s in his dreams, only caring about the end result.

When the night started with Dean's singing, goofy dancing, touching himself—it was funny. He'd thought Dean was simply being ... silly. It's not like Castiel is all that familiar with this kind of thing. But things progressed, and the teasing smiles became darker stares. Heated shadows building in the space between them.

And then, making matters worse, Dean's hand had slid lower to palm over his growing erection—plain as day in the loose pants. After that, Cas had been a mess. He'd tried to draw attention to the situation, uttering Dean's name, but any actual efforts to stop things got lost before they ever made any real impact.

Dean stalked closer, until he was leaning over the couch, stroking himself directly in front of Cas' face. No amount of shifting or adjusting brought him relief, his own sex straining between his hips, begging for attention.

Dean noticed.

Of course he had ... it was Dean Winchester. Those green eyes flashed down, caught sight of the hard line jutting into the fabric and went for it. Dean took him in hand so perfectly that he almost came that moment.

It all crashed on him when he realized Dean thought it was a dream. He should've stopped things, but hearing Dean beg to be touched broke his self-control into pieces.

Lost in his thoughts, Castiel takes a sip of his coffee—which has gone cold— and abandons his search for reason and simply replays the feel of Dean orgasming into his hand, knowing that he was responsible for bringing Dean that kind of release.

This morning’s current predicament is whether Dean will remember when he wakes. Cas had once more discarded of Dean's clothes, and man-handling his loose-limbed sleeping body, he'd been able to redress Dean in the last clean pair of those fucking grey pants that he’ll never forget for the rest of his life. It seems that he’ll need to figure out how to wash semen out of cotton after all. Not that he plans on asking Dean the best way to do that.

Mid-afternoon, the sky is covered with a white wall of thick clouds, and the early morning frost has beaded into water. Dean lumbers into the kitchen, his crutch under his armpit. The almost empty bottle of cough medicine hangs in his free hand. For anyone else Cas would worry about an overdose but seeing as it’s Dean, he doesn’t.

"Hey," Dean mutters, trudging to the stove where a pot sits full of warmed pea soup.

Sitting stiff as a board, he answers, "Good morning, Dean."

"Mmm, pea soup. Any stale crackers?" Dean’s voice is rough from a sore throat, but there’s no hint of lingering tension or any indication at all that he remembers.

Cas shakes his head. Not so much in reply to Dean, but more in disappointment.

“Ah, well.” Shrugging, Dean grabs a bowl and pours himself some soup. When he sits at the table with a thick exhale, he says, "Man, I'm beat. I think I slept for like twenty-four hours or something. Worst cold of life!"

Cas looks away, trying to hide the rush of pain that threatens to choke him. He hums an indifferent reply, not trusting himself to speak.

For better or for worse, at least he knows for sure. Dean doesn't remember a thing.

And knowing Dean the way he does, the fact is, the dream was probably nothing more than a search for release. A means of getting off. Dean never cared for anything more than that. He’s said it outright more times than Cas cares to remember.

That’s when he makes the decision that he should’ve made long ago. It’s time to pull back, to bury the emotions that he knows go far beyond a debauched dream.

⊢≬⊣

Two weeks after Dean's cold has cleared, he begins to notice how everything has changed. And not for the better.

God, what the hell could he have possibly said during his fever delirium? It's terrifying to consider the possibilities, especially when he remembers the deluded dreams he had. In a vain attempt, he tries to blame the fever, or the medicine for the dreams, but his brain _tsks_ at him.

C'mon Dean, be real.

Why now though? After all this time. It started so long ago and he got over it. Just some stupid fantasy. Nothing more than some weird, sexual attraction. And if he's honest, it's not like Cas has been the first dude to take up that mantle in his pervy dreams. Either way, when the world ended, and all they did was survive on a day-to-day basis, the desire faded into the background and their friendship cemented itself. He’d been relieved.

But the memories of the old craving still exist, and there's a chance he said something damaging to that effect. Because ever since then, there's a clear line of distance between them. Put in place very stringently by Cas.

It's subtle, but he can tell by the lack of casual touching that he never noticed about their friendship before—the reassuring clasps on the shoulder, the comforting hand on the back every now and again, and other instances that he can't even recall, but he knows they existed.

Cas has also stopped crashing on the couch. Every night, he heads up those lacquered steps no matter how tired he might be, or even the nights it’s clear that he’s cozy on the couch with his book.

Sometimes, it’s almost like he thinks about staying, but then glances over at Dean, and seems reminded of all the reasons why he suddenly needs to hightail it up the stairs.

Dean's leg is getting a lot better, but Cas still insists on doing the outside chores alone, feigning it’s because of the snow now covering the ground or Dean's broken limb.

Without a calendar to track the dates, he only knows its December based on the weather, but he thinks, going on gut-instinct that Christmas is near. Not that they've celebrated it ever. God, he can barely remember the last time he and Sam had a real holiday together—the only thing that comes to mind is the crazy couple with the wreaths, but it can't have been that long ago.   He wishes the winter was done already and that Sam were here. The silence that’s settled between him and Cas is grating. Everyday's a struggle but he won't dare bring it up. He's not quite agitated enough to chance the discussion it might bring on.

But each day that passes, Dean’s grief starts trading players with Team PO’d. And knowing himself, he’ll snap soon enough.

It’s just a matter of time.

 

Five days is all it takes for Dean to lose his shit. But it’s five days of feeling like he’s living with a robot.

Going over it and over it, he’s convinced himself there’s no way he said anything damaging during his Nyquil bender. It all boils down to how he acted before getting sick. Because even then, Cas was being weird.

Not as bad as it is now, but that’s definitely what’s going on.

So four days ago, Dean apologized ... _again_. And what did Cas say? “It’s fine, Dean.”

Three days ago, he even played the ‘ _Look, I’m sharing my feelings_ ’ crap, talking about how he and Sammy grew up and how bad it could get. And how did Cas respond? “It is very unfortunate that John Winchester abandoned you so often.”

Yeah, no shit. Thanks for the eye-opener.

Thing is, Dean’s not even all that bent out of shape from the lack of conversation, it’s the damn stone cold facade that’s driving him batshit.

Oh, and yesterday, it was the perfect opportunity to really show Cas he was done being a selfish dick. When Cas offhand complained that his back was sore from dragging eight new infected off their property, Dean put aside all his inner fantasies and offered up a massage. Vowing to himself that he would be the picture of damn professionalism.

The response? Not even words. Just a glare. That was it.

Which brings him to today, wherein shit will be lost. It’s a shame that it happens on a nice winter day. Not too cold, the sun is out, only a couple inches of snow coating the ground.

All very beautiful, he notices, as he follows Cas outside to gather wood, despite Cas' protests that he can, “Do it himself.”

He's left the crutch inside, opting to hobble light-footed on the right leg, letting his left do most of the work. It doesn’t hurt but he knows it still needs to heal properly, so he's careful.

They work in silence, piling the logs into the wheelbarrow.

Meanwhile, the shitstorm is brewing.

A bird squawks out of nowhere and it happens to be the most annoying noise on the planet. Very abruptly, Dean can't fucking stand the status quo anymore.

"What the fuck, Cas!?" he shouts, throwing the chunk of birch in his hands to the ground.

Cas jumps back from the log as it rolls towards his feet. "Christ, Dean! What's wrong with you?"

Dean seethes, his teeth grinding. "What's wrong with me?" he counters, his voice high and squeaky. "You barely fucking talk to me! Holy shit, Cas, I get it! I was a fucking jerk and I made you cry and, Christ, I know I'm not the best person to spend time around, but _my God_ , make the fucking best of it!"

Slamming a heavy log into the overloaded wheelbarrow, Cas yells back. "I _am_ making the best of it!” Throwing his arms out, he continues, “This is the best I can do, Dean ... This is _all_ I can handle." Fired up, Cas bends over and snatches twenty pounds of tree from in front of his feet.

"Fuck, man, was I that bad?" he asks in a rough, low tone. “I know I was a dick, but I’ve been doing my damn best not to be an annoying ass. I’m trying to make up for it here.”

The former angel stops posturing, the hefty slice of tree hanging in his grasp low against his frame. Gradually, he meets Dean's eyes.

"No, you ... _Nevermind_." Cas’ whole body sags, draining of the fight.

They stand there, awkwardly, staring at each other for another minute.

"Then what is it?" asks Dean reluctantly.

The piece of wood is thrown over to the original pile with a thunk and Cas pauses to wipe his gloves on his jacket before he wipes his runny nose with the back of it. When he finally meets Dean at eye level, he seems so done.

Just really fucking _done_.

"It’s nothing, Dean. It’s ... I've never had to live like this before. Spending so much time alone with you, it's—"

"—A pain in the ass, I know," Dean finishes, getting the point. He walks away, wishing he could storm off but can't because of his fucking leg. The fucking piece of shit limb that got him stuck in this fucking disaster.

⊢≬⊣

Cas stares at the back of Dean’s head, watching as the man stomps unevenly towards the farmhouse. Seconds pass, and then minutes. All he can think of is that he was a few choice words away from telling Dean everything. From venting out his feelings in some dramatic confession.

Thinking back on the outburst between them he’s immeasurably relieved that he didn’t do anything that foolish. It’s one thing to be drawn to Dean the way he is, but it would be a sure blow to his heart to lay it all out and have Dean stare back at him with nothing to say.

Dean Winchester is not a man you confess your love to.

From the day they met, Castiel knew who Dean was. A man with a haunted past, with reservations about relationships and love. There is so much that Castiel has learned over the years, the most knowledge gained after the infection took over. And more than ever, he’s painfully aware of Dean’s limitations. And he knows that Dean sees him as a friend and nothing more.

Maybe, at the very most, a warm body to use when there’s no one else around. The sad fact is, if Dean propositioned him outright, he probably wouldn’t have the willpower to say no. Driving this wedge into their friendship is the only way to ensure he won’t be tempted.

In the end, Dean’s not the type of man to fall for someone. He’s the type of man that slakes his needs in the quickest, least intimate way possible.

Castiel wants more than that.

⊢≬⊣

They reach a bizarre, unspoken truce after that day, staying out of each other's way, chatting over safe topics. They never, _ever_ seem to go for the alcohol that's sitting in front of the TV, and the fact that it's there and Dean has no desire for it really tells him how fucking weird things are.

January turns into February, and then March. Each day slips by weightless and unremarkable, and Dean wishes he could slow things down.

Considering how uncomfortable their friendship, or lack thereof, has become, it seems odd that winter is racing by. Being eager for things to go back to normal, you'd think the approach of the spring would take forever to come around.

A part of him wonders if he'll ever miss the winter he spent here with Cas in an old farmhouse. He's not sure he likes the way his brain is linking things together: Cas, farmhouse, tension, fighting about nothing.

It sounds too much like a marriage. Minus the sex.

 _Well_ , he reconsiders; maybe it _is_ like a marriage after all. The ridiculous thought pulls a laugh from him one late night when Cas is reading and he's trying to repair the propane generator he found.

It's futile, he knows, because they only have a very small amount of propane left to get them through the last few weeks before Sam makes it back this way. Even though that's the case, he would love to be able to flip some power on, turn on the TV and watch one of the VHS movies stacked and dusty beside the box TV.

Three nights later the generator roars to life like a beast emerging from hibernation and Dean shouts his triumph, "I am GOD!" he yells, pounding at his chest like King Kong. Cas glances up from his book, his eyebrows raised, a small smile on his face that Dean can't remember seeing in nearly three months.

Dean smiles back. “Movie night, Cas.”

It’s taken some expert wire-jigging and old, broken marettes to get the TV and VCR working, long ropes of red, white, and black wire running all over the floor that he’s ripped out from behind the walls. He digs through the small offering of movies and laughs when he sees, none other than, King Kong—the original. He pushes it in, hoping the former residents of this farmhouse were kind enough to rewind because he doesn't know how much juice they've got to work with. The generator had miraculously fired up with whatever was left in it. Granted, a massive black cloud had farted out of the thing, but it’s working.

Something about being able to watch a movie in over two years brings out a hyper thrill in him, and he forgets momentarily all about how things have been between him and his best friend.

Elated, Dean leaps onto the couch, purposefully disturbing Cas and the damn book he’s reading.

"Wanna snuggle!?" he teases, about ninety percent kidding. That last ten percent is a barely acknowledged part of him that’s strikingly desperate for contact.

Man, it hurts to see Cas recoil just a little bit. It’s a joke, dude. _Mostly._ Like one of those things where if you’re gettin’ a negative on the receiving end then, yeah, totally a joke, but if the other person looks kinda interested, then no joke. Dean would’ve thrown out all his earlier hangups about getting close to Cas and fucking got right in there. Spooning, heads on chests, entwined limbs. He’s so greedy for anything, he’d willingly take it all.

The movie’s starting and he gets comfy in his corner of the couch, long bowed legs stretching out until they bump against Cas’ hip. "I wanna stretch my legs out," he whines, smiling, pushing that line of friendship as hard as he can. Cas might not be on board, but dammit, he misses how things were.

With an overdramatic sigh, Cas dog-ears the page in his book, squeezes it between the arm and the cushion of the couch and shoots a quick sideways glance at Dean, before grabbing his ankles and placing them into his lap.

"Better?"

Dean swallows, giving his friend a sly grin. "Am I getting a foot rub?" He shouldn’t ask, but it’s better than screaming: _Please touch me!_

Cas chuckles a slow, sarcastic laugh that makes Dean think he’s missing something. Flicking his eyes back to Dean, he says "No."

When the resulting stare lingers long enough to tighten his stomach, Dean refocuses on the old TV.

About a half hour in, Cas rests his hands on Dean's feet.

It means nothing, obviously, but considering the only touch between them the last three months has been accidental brushes past one another in the house, he’s overjoyed to have the weight of Cas’ hands on him.

Being hyper aware of the contact, it takes Dean nearly fifteen minutes to settle the tension in his shoulders and thighs. Which is downright ridiculous.

Soon the comfort slips to drowsiness, and then eyes drifting shut. The last part of the movie that Dean remembers before he checked out was the woman being offered to King Kong on a long platform.

However long after that, Dean wakes up to a dark room, finding that he’s alone. When his eyes readjust, his ears follow suit, and the silence seems strange now with the movie and generator off. He eases off the couch and sees by the dishes near the sink that Cas is already awake. Which is odd, it’s barely dawn—

Breaking into the silence, something heavy crashes against the house.

Dean races outside.

When he hammers down the porch steps, he books it to the side of the house where the sound came from, his sock feet cold in the snow. He barrels around the side of the porch and sees where the sound had come from—Cas is fighting off four sluggish infected bare-handed.

They’ve closed in around him and it’s not looking good. Fuck.

Thank god for the winter, which has made them slow. Cas doesn’t seem on his best game today. Dean rushes over and tackles one of the infected before realizing he's got no weapons. He can feel his empty stomach protesting what he's about to do, but he forcibly snaps the neck he's managed to wrap his hands around.

Covered in snow, he gets up, his leg cramping, the muscles screaming in protest, but he forces the rush on the second target.

Cas yells at him, "Dean, I've got this!"

"My ass you do!" he fires back, struggling with the body, trying to throw it down to the ground.

He can hear clacking near his ear and makes a disgusted face, praying to the empty divine above that he's not about to get bitten. He thrashes until the two of them manage to crash into the side of the house. It sends them sliding on the snow and to the ground. This is where Dean can take advantage; he gets on top, straddling the horribly disgusting ... corpse? God it looks dead, he thinks.

Wait—

"Cas!?" he barks.

When he hears no response, he looks back over his shoulder to find Cas on his knees looking down at the twisted body on the ground, his face devoid of emotion.

"Cas!?" he tries again, his urgent tone gathers the man's attention. "Get over here!" he mutters roughly, exerting way too much energy trying to keep the body beneath him controlled.

Not bothering to stand, despite the snow, Cas crawls over—looking tired as fuck. "What?"

"Check its pulse."

"Dean, why would I—"

"—Just do it."

Cas harrumphs and rips his glove off, reaching forward to place two fingers against the neck of the body struggling under Dean.

Dean knows he's right when Cas lurches back on the snow, falling on his ass. "I don’t understand."

"Nothing, right?" he grunts towards Cas, working harder to keep the thing down as he’s more affected by the cold, and the thing less so, especially considering it's dead.

"It makes no sense. These aren't zombies," Cas argues, coming back over to check the thing again. Like maybe being dead was some sort of fluke.

"Not the way we knew ‘em. I mean those guys were, like, supernatural and shit, these dudes? I dunno man. This was done by scientists. Who knows what the fuck they messed around with?" Dean braces himself and grabs the thing’s head and jerks it until he hears a dull snap.

"Dean, we need to get inside," warns Cas, his eyes wide and fixed on something in the distance. Dean follows his gaze and targets the cause for alarm. The end of winter is bringing in infected back north. Like the fuckers have migrated.

"Yeah ... I'm good with that."

Grabbing onto Cas for help getting up, they make it back inside, cold and soaked to the bone. Both of them strip off their clothes blindly and uncaring.

Using the wood boards they'd accumulated, in addition to the ones that were already up, they seal up the remaining gaps and across the door. Dean's down to his boxers, which are drenched, as he hammers the slat of wood across the door. Cas seals up the gap in kitchen window, and he's gone straight all the way to naked.

"Grab some clothes from upstairs," Dean gestures, "I'll go stock the fire."

Cas nods and heads off. Dean's eyes betray him, taking a quick peek at Cas' ass as he dashes away. Yep, as perfect as he remembers. Muscular, smooth, curved just right for a good grabbing.

God, he should just start banging his head against a wall. Dean marches off to the wood-stove set in the corner of the living room, intentions to ram a whole tree up in there until he’s no longer shaking like a paint mixer.

Fully dressed in a thick knit sweater and paint-splattered jeans, Cas jogs down the stairs to find Dean naked, holding his boxers in front of the open door of the wood-stove, the fire crackling away. He passes off the pants and sweater he'd found and Dean gets dressed, shivering from the sudden warmth of clothes and fire against his skin.

"When do you think Sam will come back?" he asks. Not since the beginning has he considered the possibility that his brother won't return.

"Hopefully soon. We have barely any propane left, maybe only to last us a couple more days, a week at most if we're careful, but after that we'll have to cook food on the wood-stove or eat it cold."

Dean groans, ugh, cold canned food sucks so bad. But whatever, at least they have food. Really, he's lived way worse than this in the last two-plus years. They could even make it until the spring if they had to, and then move south-west on their own, but Sam said he would come back. And Dean doesn't dare leave this place until his brother returns.

The following morning they're woken by scraping sounds against the house. They've passed out on the couch, each at either end, sharing a mound of blankets.

Shifting in the night has resulted in Cas' foot being wedged up against Dean's junk and it's really not sexy, especially if Cas twitches and crushes his nuts. Dean shoves the foot away, exchanging a worried look with Cas before they both head upstairs to look out the only remaining window they haven't boarded up. It's a small circle at the peak of the attic.

Dean's calf and thigh on his right leg are aching bad after the fight yesterday. He knows everything’s healed, but the inactivity didn’t do him any favours. The walk up the first flight of stairs and the even narrower attic stair case, are a bitch.

"Well, Dean, if Sam doesn't come soon, I don't think we'll have to worry about having enough to eat." Cas says bleakly, the first to the window.

Stealing himself, Dean asks, "Why?"

"'Cause we'll probably be dead."


	17. Chapter 17

The next several days are bad.

They've had to kill the fire because it seemed to be attracting more infected ... or dead. Whatever. Doesn't matter now anyhow, Dean muses. They're all fit for graves.

On the second night with no fire, Dean is shaking beneath three heavy blankets on the couch. It’s warmer upstairs, but there’s only one bed.

Unable to stop himself he squirms and groans, hating the chill that won’t vacate his bones.

“Dean?”

Pushing the thick blankets away from his face, Dean eases up to glance through the shadows at the stairs. “What?”

“Come upstairs and bring the blankets with you.”

“I’m fine.” He’s not. But heading upstairs with Cas seems like a world-class stupid idea.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Cas cuts into the living room, annoyed, and starts yanking on the comforters that are keeping him alive.

“Ugh, fine! Maniac. I’m coming.”

Climbing the stairs with an armload of musty blankets behind Cas isn’t easy. Cas is wearing farmer joe’s waffled long-johns. Why that entices him, he can’t say.

They get to the room and Cas climbs back in on the far side and glares at him. Dean has stopped in the doorway, eyebrows up with a question.

“Holy fuck, Dean, get into the frigging bed!” Cas yells and twists under the blankets to curl up and face the wall.

Dean decides that having Cas swear and yell at him is better than the passive aggressive bullshit that he’s been getting.

Being nice and everything, he two-hands each blanket and gives each one a big wave in the air until they’re all settled nicely on top of the ex-angel.

At that point, he has no other option left than to get in himself. Thank god it’s modestly warm up here or he’d consider going back downstairs.

Hauling up the hefty pile of linens, Dean shoves his body underneath the load and rests his head on the pillow, eyes glued to the back of Cas’ head.

It wouldn’t be the first time that he’s slept close to Cas—not by a long shot. But now, every subtle movement is like a foghorn in his mind.

In the middle of anger and warmth, Dean manages to fall asleep.

⊢≬⊣

It’s just before dawn when Dean’s snoring wakes Castiel up. Face contorted into tired irritation, he spins around and lifts up enough to see the sleepy face he knows well.

Castiel glares; watching each snore rumble out of that full mouth.

Never before has Castiel been this irritated—not by the snoring, of course. That’s no surprise. He’ll admit, Dean has been trying to be on his best behaviour.

Too bad for Dean that none of that matters. Castiel needs to maintain distance. A hard thing to do when you’re sharing a bed. He couldn’t very well leave Dean downstairs to get sick again.

But the irritation. There’s nothing else like it. A desperate itch plagues him. But it’s nothing about his skin, it’s buried underneath.

Seeing Dean’s bottom lip tremble with another snore rising up, Castiel reaches out and shakes Dean by the shoulder.

“Stop snoring!”

Swallowing and looking blearily up at Cas, a faint smile teases Dean’s features before it’s gone in a second. “Sorry, I’ll try to stop.” Rolling over to face inward, Dean settles himself.

Great. Now there’s even less space between them.

Determined to ignore the feelings that Dean ignites in him, Cas flips over to face the wall.

Adjusting his twisted clothes, he sighs and tries in vain to fall back asleep.

 

The sleeping arrangement continues. And Castiel is both in love with and loathes it in equal measure.

They’ve spent their days doing nothing. Waiting. The house is completely surrounded and they willfully ignore what it means if Sam doesn’t come back.

One night, crawling into bed as they’ve been doing, Dean stops cold. Looking across the expanse of the queen-sized mockery of his desires, Cas asks him what’s up.

“Things aren’t looking too good, are they?”

He might as well go with the truth. “No.”

Lifting his chin, Dean meets his stare. It holds, and he can feel the old familiar tension in the air between them.

Neither of them will sleep well tonight.

Two things happen to wake him that night; the first is a low sound by his ear, and the second is a hot body pushing against him.

Going still, he realizes that Dean is plastered to his back. Breathing as calm as he can he nudges back ever so slightly, wondering what might happen.

“ _Hmph_ ,” Dean hums and writhes behind him.  

Something hard prods against his rear.

Castiel breaks out into an immediate sweat. His own cock has managed to swell with the fast rate of his heart and it strains the snug fit of his boxers.

Going by the low mumbles and clumsy thrusts, it’s clear that Dean’s out cold. Dreaming again. Goddammit, why does this keep happening?

I should wake Dean up, he tells himself.

But he doesn’t.

His fingers twitch with the urge to nudge his underwear off and do the same for Dean somehow, craving skin on skin.

It hurts to feel used again, but his body wants Dean and he figures, at least this is better than when Dean snaps at him.

Under the heated shelter of eight blankets, Dean rolls against him once more and his breath catches. The hard, thick line of Dean’s sex digging against the cushion of his ass is too intoxicating, too good not to feel.

Just once.

⊢≬⊣

Groaning, Dean grasps at the last bits of his dream. He’s so close, he can feel the crest of his orgasm break apart at the last second.

Just like last time on the couch, Dean startles awake with his hips shaking and realizes too late that he’s not alone.

Oh god. Oh fuck…

Biting his lip hard, he’s mortified. But can’t for the life of him stop the last few shudders that rock him from head to toe. In the cold few seconds after the last wave, reality hits like a bucket of ice.

Christ, this is bad.

Being in bed with Cas makes this really bad. Finding that he’s dream-humped clear across the bed and been rutting against Cas’ ass for god knows how long makes it about the worst possible situation ever.

There’s no way Cas didn’t feel that.

Dean backs up, trying to go fast and not jostle the bed at the same time. Finally at the edge, he slides out from under the weight of blankets.

Wanting to scream, he leaves the room and beelines for the bathroom, unable to ignore how his boxers are sticking to him.

Yet another piece of clothing to shove under the couch. Awesome.

⊢≬⊣

With Dean finally gone, Castiel lets out the heavy breath that’s been trapped in his lungs. Closing his eyes, he squirms under the blankets, moaning softly at how his boxers are bunched and damp between his ass cheeks.

And worse, he uncurls his fist from his softening dick and wipes his hand on the sheets.

What in the hell was that?

As though answering his unspoken question, Dean stomps back in. “Ok, I know you’re awake. How could you not be. Bottom line, I had a dream. Something happened—not on purpose at all. Can we please never, _ever_ talk about it again?”

Cas holds in his response until he’s sure his voice won’t sound starved of oxygen. “Ok.”

⊢≬⊣

Everything is weird.

Each passing second’s like nails on a fucking chalkboard. Dean wants to scream. He’s pissed, he’s horny, he’s hungry. And everything is all jumbled together, running high over the notion that they might die soon. It’s taking a toll.

After the— _cough-cough_ —wet-dream incident in bed, Dean forces himself to sleep on his back and not move an inch. Through sheer will, he somehow powers on without one more dream rising up to make his life hell.

Dean still has no fucking idea how their friendship got so massively fucked, but he decides to file it under the folder marked: ‘Weird shit that has to do with Cas’. And like everything else in that hefty manila shoved somewhere deep in his brain, he pretends it doesn't exist.

Damn easier than the alternative. And way the fuck less terrifying.

 

One particularly frigid morning, feeling Cas lying next to him, Dean cracks his eyes open to the sound of shouting. Cas hears it almost the same moment and jolts up, looks awkwardly down at Dean, realizing how close they'd drifted through the night but there's no time to give two shits about that.

They clamor out of bed, and Dean trips over the eight-thousand blankets that seem to twist around him on the way out. Cas grabs under his arms and hoists him up off the floor.

They race to the window on the third floor and when they both crowd against the panes and look out, Dean smiles and howls.

"Gimme your sweater," he says urgently to Cas. Taking too long to get with the program, Dean grabs for the shirt and starts yanking it off.

With the thick garment in hand, he wraps the thing around his elbow and busts the window out. The crashing glass rains down below. "Sammy!!' he hollers as loud as possible. His gigantic brother smiles a dopey, relieved grin up towards them in mid-fight. He's with a huge group of people and they're all fighting through the crowd of infected that had moved in around the farmhouse.

"Ya wanna come give us a hand or what?!" Sam shouts up, the biggest grin lighting up his features.

They need no more invitation than that, scrambling to put on more clothes and find boots. Grabbing anything they find for weapons. Cas snags the axe and his machete. Dean takes one of the big knives from the kitchen and his crutch that he hasn't used in a while.

It takes both of them to rip the plywood off the kitchen door, but it finally splinters and crashes against the table, turning over a couple chairs in the process. They have to push through bodies immediately crowded up on the porch. Cas swings his machete one-handed, while Dean opts to stab skulls with his knife, using the crutch as a make-shift barrier to push the bodies away from them.

It's the loudest morning they've had in a long time.

Grunts, crashes, and snippets of swearing. Dean is fucking loving it. And it takes hours, and a lot of work to clear the way, but finally the crowd is mowed down and Dean throws his weapons down and rushes Sam with a tackle of a hug.

"Christ, it's good to see you!" he says harshly, a little out of breath.

"My God, Dean ... you don't know what I thought when we got here and the whole goddamned place was surrounded! What the hell happened?" Sam asks, having pulled out of the hug but keeps both hands on his shoulders.

Cas comes up beside them and hugs Sam too. "I think it was King-Kong," Cas says blandly in the midst of the reunion.

The immediate scrunching confusion on Sam's face has Dean busting over in laughter. He knows what Cas means of course, but he's just so happy, he can't help himself.

"Care to explain?" Sam asks, his gleaming eyes shooting back and forth between the two of them.

"I set up a generator and got the TV working and we watched King-Kong. It might have been the noise, but I think it was the change in weather more than anything. The fire going kept them around and after we killed that even, they just didn't leave," Dean tells his brother.

It looks like they're standing in the aftermath of a war—bodies and blood all around. He's happy to see that both Josh and Ray are still alive and well.

Josh is sporting a scar on his left cheek that wasn’t there before, but Dean doesn't ask. There are fifteen more in the group and he can't believe it. Sammy Winchester being the obvious leader, and he's clearly great at it. Dean's fucking _damn_ proud. He almost wishes his dad were around to see it.

Cas heads off to greet new parties of the group and Sam leans over. "So how was the winter?"

Dean can feel himself making a face, his eyebrows shooting up as he gives his brother a dry look. "What do you think?" he asks rhetorically.

"Funny, I thought you'd get along pretty well. You guys are close." Sam muses as they start walking over to the rest of the group.

Dean thinks about that, and mutters low under his breath, "Not anymore." And knowing he's saying that even after everything that happened really hits home to him how far apart they've grown. There's a wedge between him and Cas that settled in over the winter here and he's not sure what happened, and he doesn't want to look too closely.

He can barely remember half the names he's told, but it's quite a mix of people from around the country. Sam just picked up the three most recent people two towns ago. They'd been holed up in a regional mall at the edge of the city. Going for supplies is how Sam and the group ran into them.

Most of the group remains outside, while Sam, Dean, Cas and three others Dean doesn't know head inside to pack up. One of three is a pretty sexy blonde chick wearing a green military jacket, and tight skinny jeans. He hasn't been surrounded by this much life in so long, and it’s a buzz that drives him to hit on her pretty fast as she helps him fill a pack with canned food and bags of dried stuff.

She laughs at his lame attempt, saying, "Actually, I find your friend pretty sexy. Sorry, but I might try my luck with him. Those blues are quite something." The blonde practically swoons.

"Yeah, Cas sure has a way with the ladies," he murmurs, completely annoyed.

They're finally back on the road and he’s relieved. Sam had gone straight south in the fall and now decides they're gonna head north-west towards Washington state. The group is twenty-strong and they all split up along the roads, moving in threes and fours, or less, for ease of travel and so they don't draw too much attention to themselves. Dean's watching Cas walk beside the blonde girl he learned is named Lexi.

What kind of a parent names their kid such a dumb-blonde sounding name? He makes a strange noise in his throat, aggravated that she turned him down for Cas. _Cas!_

"Anything major happen?" Sam asks as the two walk together.

"Nah. Just a long winter, man."

"I hear ya," agrees Sam, and begins to tell Dean everything that happened over the last few months: The people they've found, the raiders they'd taken out back in December, there's something about a girl that Sam skims over and Dean knows better than to tease him about it. Especially considering the sorrow that flashes through Sam's eyes.

It's a whole different dynamic now with this many people. He and Ray never argue anymore, both content to let Sam do all the leading, trusting him and being his backup more than anything.

 


	18. Chapter 18

April in the Montana mountain ranges is cold and, unfortunately for them, rainier than normal. They do their best to stick to the valleys but the unpleasant weather makes their trek arduous.

Sam has told Castiel that they’re headed towards Helena, but despite the relative short distance it’s taking them an era, or at least, it feels that way to Castiel.

With their group much larger now, they take longer rest stops—sometimes a week at a time. Part of it is feeling much more secure than before. The highways have little to offer and Sam’s opted to take them through the woods as often as he can.

With the collective hunting skills of the group, there’s often enough food to find. Enough, but by no means plentiful.

Dean has hardly said a word to him since they left Chester. In many ways, it’s a good thing. In the first few days after they started out, Lexi, the blonde with an abundance of energy, had blatantly laid out her interest in Castiel.

He fondly recalls her audaciousness. “I hear you were an angel,” she’d started off. After immediate introductions she’d leaned over to him, raised a single eyebrow and shot him a smile that was so reminiscent of Dean’s cocky swagger that he’d reflexively smiled back.

“Here’s the thing, Cas—I think you’re hot. When I want something I’m honest about it. Question is, are _you_ interested?”

Staring back into her blueish-grey eyes, the light catching the cool tones, he’d found himself struck by a sadness over Dean. The way Lexi was looking at him was the he wanted Dean to look at him. The sad reality was that it would never happen.

Not sober.

And certainly not with the depth of feelings to back it. Castiel isn’t interested in something casual with Dean (though if Dean offered, he probably wouldn’t be strong enough to decline).

Not that Dean has offered, he reminds himself.

All this had crossed through his mind in a few seconds and he ended up nodding, mumbling that he, too, was interested. She smiled triumphantly and bumped his hip with her own. “What do you know? There are highlights in this craphole world after all.”

Now, a few weeks later, they’re taking a pit stop some ways off a narrow trail through the woods. Old gouges from past all-terrain vehicles still mark the path. They’d been following the route for a few days.

Lexi is currently dragging him alongside her hunt for a “runner” snake. A snake that apparently can grow to about six feet long. She’s remarkably light-footed moving through the woods. Stealth like Dean.

Suddenly, her right arm shoots back, her palm stretched out for him to stop. Lightning fast, she bends over and snatches something from the ground with both hands. When she rears back up, a broad smile has stretched her oval-shaped face.

“Ah-ha!!” she cries out. A long brown snake, about three feet in length, is held in her hands. Her one fist is wrapped around its head and the other about two-thirds of the way down its body. The powerful creature tries to twist and turn its way out of her hold, but she’s practiced, it seems.

“Is that a runner?” he asks, trying to muster the necessary excitement for her.

“Unfortunately no. But it’ll be tasty!” she assures.

Her mouth curves into a teasing grin and she stomps over spiky, expansive evergreen plants and presents its face to him. In a low voice, she says, “Hello Castiel, I’m your lunch.”

Castiel’s eyebrows arch up and he looks at her. “You’re quite skilled. The others will be pleased.”

“Damn right they better be. C’mon.” Moving with confidence through the woods, she leads them back to the group. Every so often, she turns back to smile at him. So much of her reminds him of Dean.

Except for one small thing. Lexi is refreshingly honest. Whereas, with Dean, Castiel always feels as if he’s missing something. There’s so much beneath the surface of who the man is. When he’d been an angel, Castiel could remember the moments when he’d sensed Dean’s confusion, his reluctance or fear. And yet, Dean never slowed down. Not for anything.

“What’s on your mind, angel?” she asks, her eyes flitting down to see the way he’s worrying his lower lip, thoughts (as they often are) stuck on Dean. Lexi cradles the snake against her chest. It seems to have accepted her as its captor.

“Nothing of import.”

“BS.” Lexi lets one strap of her shoulder bag hang down and shoves the snake inside. Securing the two straps in a knot, she places the bag on the ground and walks over to him. “Spill your beans, dude.”

“It’s nothing,” he shrugs.

“Holy crap. You and those damn Winchesters. Always mopey about something! Things aren’t that bad. They could always be worse, Cas. _Remember that_.” Reaching up, Lexi captures his face, eases up onto her tiptoes and kisses him.

Despite her long, straight blonde hair and distinct female curves, she’s by no means dainty in demeanor. She’s tough and commanding. Lexi doesn’t hint at wanting to deepen a kiss ... she angles his head and slides her tongue in. Castiel wonders if Dean would kiss that way. He thinks maybe he might.

A hand runs down his chest and passes by his ribs to curve towards his hips. She grabs each side and pulls him close.

“You wanna head back the last couple miles or you wanna fool around?”

Castiel feels a bit lost in this regard. Before her, the only experience he had with a woman was kissing Meg, and that serious groping from Chastity in that unseemly establishment Dean had taken him to. He and Lexi haven’t yet had sex. She’s gone down on him though, and he’s used his hand on her. It’s been a learning experience to say the least.

Harbouring an unfair anger towards Dean, he decides to dive in with both feet as the saying goes. Or as Dean would often say: Fuck it.

Moving closer, remembering the smooth, confident moves of the pizza man, Castiel reaches for her backside and hikes her up against his front, her legs wrapping around his waist.

“Holy Batman, Cas. What’s gotten into you?”

Not Dean, that’s for sure. But maybe if he makes an effort with someone that reminds him of his former charge, he’ll have some chance at being modestly happy. There’s something very sad and pathetic about that.

Staring into her eyes, he asks, “Have you ever given up on something to save your sanity?”

Her arms wrap around his neck and she leans over to kiss him, her tongue stroking against his. Lexi draws back and meets his fixed stare. “No,” she says with a charming smile. “But then, I’d rather be insane and keep trying than die of regret.”

“And if it’s impossible?”

“Nothing is impossible.”

Some things are. Walking them back towards a tree, he traps her between it and himself, “I’ve never had sex before.”

Of course, Lexi knows. Somehow.

“Obviously. I don’t imagine angels did much bed-hopping up there.”

Castiel makes a dubious face. “Relations between angels were not uncommon. I, myself, never found interest.” Until I met Dean.

“Here’s your first pointer, Cas, can the chit-chat and get on with it.” Even with the constructive criticism, she’s not unkind.

Hopping down, Lexi takes control and pulls a foil packet from her front pocket, shimmies out of the tight, ripped jeans, undoes his and shoves them down with his boxers. The anticipation of a new experience does excite him and his body reacts accordingly. Even though the whole impending enterprise is bittersweet.

He indulges in a second or two with his eyes closed, imagining another set of deft fingers securing latex around his erection. But then the guilt washes over him and he opens his eyes to see Lexi grinning at him.

She hooks an arm around his neck and hops back up around his hips. Pushing her back against the bark once more, Castiel reaches down and takes his length in hand, moving himself into place.

A contented sigh leaves her mouth as her weight sinks over him; the heat of her body dulling his senses.

For the briefest of seconds, he’s on the verge of crying. Not out of joy from his first taste of sex. But because he’s not with the person he loves.

And for that, he grinds his teeth, anger at Dean simmers in him. It’s a seething, unparalleled injustice that he can’t rein in. The worst of it, is that none of it is Dean’s fault. Dean is who he is. And Castiel’s never pursued anything.

That night at the farmhouse? It was nothing more than a fluke. Dean’s drunken, drugged up mission for release. And the one morning in bed? Dean told him outright it meant nothing.

Pushing aside the thoughts that cheapen what he has with Lexi, Castiel thrusts into her, giving her as much of him as he can. She’s fascinating, confident, and bold.

“Oh fuck. This is awesome,” she grounds out, her head tipped back. Blonde hair spills over her shoulders and Castiel brushes it aside and places a kiss against her throat.

If there’s one thing he’s learned since he became human, it’s that everyone deserves affection.

Everyone wants to feel ... _something._

 _Even_ a grumpy angel that went and fell in love with his charge and can’t seem to move on. And _even_ a feisty blonde that is exceptionally good at tracking and capturing snakes. At some point, he must ask her why.

What’s so wrong in finding comfort, he asks himself as he holds around her waist, moving his hips in a steady rhythm.

He can’t deny that it feels good. Pressure hugs around his hardened sex, and his breathing turns rapid and chaotic from the strenuous efforts of holding her up and coordinating their movements. As the pleasure climbs, his eyes squeeze shut and it takes all of his mental faculties to keep his mind blank.

“Fuck yeah. Oh my god, Cas.” Lexi grips his chin, drawing his eyes open and he finds her staring down at him, mischief playing across her features.

Her hand sinks behind his head and grabs a fistful of his unruly hair and pulls hard enough that it sends sparks dancing across his scalp.

The human body is a wondrous thing. Wondrous and traitorous. Castiel’s eyes flutter closed and he lets his mind drift, knowing exactly where his synapses will take him.

Some impulse has him thrusting into her harder and faster, chasing after the pressure in his groin, eager for the height of pleasure to explode.

When he finally climaxes a moment later, grunting through each wave of pleasure, an image of Dean dominates his mind.

Their heavy breathing subsides, and a sadness wells up in his throat and he lowers his forehead to her shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says, not sure what else would be appropriate.

“Oh, hot stuff, you _are_ welcome!”

In a tense quiet, they disentangle themselves and redress their lower halves. Castiel can feel her shrewd eyes on him.

“Cas, I know there’s something causing knots in that brain of yours, but you know what, if I’ve learned anything in my crazy ass life travelling the world it’s that things have a tendency to work themselves out—for better or worse. But everything heals. Maybe there’s a scar, maybe not. I know we don’t know each other that well, but you’re a nice guy and I like ya. Don’t be afraid to unload on me.” Lexi grins and a laugh bursts out of her in loud hoots. “Unload on me any way you want, hot stuff.” When she finishes her sentence with a wink, he’s left shaking his head.

“You remind me of a friend.”

“Was your friend super awesome like I am?” Lexi scoops her wriggling bag from the ground and starts walking back. He follows along.

“Yes.”

On the way back, she practically hops—so energetic—asking him question after question about Heaven and Hell. None of his stories shock her. In return, she tells him about her own past. About her travels, and the people she’s met.

Lexi Cardel isn’t the person he’d disobeyed all of Heaven for. But she’s nice and fun, and she might just save his sanity.

 

**  
**


	19. Chapter 19

In May, nearing two months since they left the farmhouse, the group of survivors find themselves getting closer to Helena; a town in Montana with a former population of about eighty thousand.

It's risky. But they’ve got a decent group and there’s bound to be supplies there. A lot of death too—but they decide to take the risk.

It's a shit-show the first day.

Infected are fucking everywhere! Things get real dicey during the first several hours after they've breached the border of the city. Dean was sure that they’d lose someone. A few people did get pretty banged up.

One got bit.

They’re not sure what's gonna happen to her. If she survives, it might be okay, but if not, they'll have to get rid of her. Dean's taken it upon himself to watch over the girl. She reminds him of Chrissy. Sam agrees, he thinks, when he catches his brother glance over with a contrite expression.

"Hey, you're doing great," says Dean, swapping out the bloody rag on her forearm for a new strip of cloth he's got beside him. Her name is Katelyn. But everyone calls her Kate. She looks no more than mid-20's. A head full of thick brunette hair that’s all curled around her shoulders—the kind of curl women get when they’ve been rained on. Her features are broad and expressive. A body made up of lovely, 50’s style curves that, if things had been normal, he’d be wanting to explore. As it is, he feels old beside her.

"Dean, you look so devastated," she says through a tight jaw, bearing herself from the pain of the wound.

He laughs awkwardly. "Just thinking that you gotta stick around ya know, I haven't had a chance to be the old creepy dude hitting on the young, hot chick yet."

Her caramel brown eyes light up, as she shifts uncomfortably against the wall of the gym they've ended up in. One of those downtown fancy gyms that rich people frequented. There are a lot of rooms, but they've been cleared and some people are off finding sleep where they can. The majority of them remain in the main room, everyone's spirits hanging heavy like the dead weight they've left in a trail in the street.

"You're not that old," she says with a kind, sweet smile.

It's such a gross lie, he feels the wrinkles on his face clinch more and more each day. Crevices wearing deep in his skin. He wonders how he might've looked if his life had been normal.

"Old enough," he says eventually.

The wound isn't that bad, but whatever is wrong with the diseased seems to cause issues with clotting. He honestly doesn't know if he can get it to stop. Of course, there's one way that he considers when she starts to pale. He makes the suggestion and watches the colour drain from her face even more.

Twenty minutes later, Sam is by his side, "Dean, I don't know man, she could go into shock."

"Sam," Kate interrupts, "remember how you found me?" He nods. "Then suck it up, I can handle this."

His brother's jaw clenches, his eyes briefly finding Dean's. They share a silent thought and then Sam is off to get what they need. One of the older women of their group found really old OxyContin in her bag and they get Kate to swallow three.

Feeling like an asshole, Dean offers to be the one to do it. You've done worse, he reminds himself. Forty goddamn years of worse.

"Ready?" he asks. Already her eyes are loopy from the drugs on an empty stomach.

She nods, lips pressed together in a stiff line. "Don't hit on me right after, wa-wait until I'm ... lucid. Got that, old m-man?"

Dean laughs, feeling relief swim through him. She reminds him a bit of Jo, too. Maybe that's why he hasn't left her side.

⊢≬⊣

Cas hears the scream rip through the building, and strangely, he's more worried about the person causing the sound than the one making it. Even without being there, he knows Dean would have volunteered to be the one.

Lexi lays beside him, her blonde hair draped over his thighs. She's using his lap as a pillow, getting much needed rest following the long fight in the streets. Lexi managed to take out nineteen alone. No wonder she’s exhausted. Checking her over, he sees the back-splatters of blood in patches all over her jacket. With each hour they grow darker.  

Thoughts winding back to Dean, he frowns. They’ve hardly muttered a word to each other. And the void between them is wearing on him, day by day.

Sometimes, when he’s alone, he yearns for that windy night in the beat-down farmhouse with the sounds of love songs framing a soft, stolen memory. But then he remembers how tainted the memory is and chews his lip and tries to force the images from his mind.

It might be a cop-out, but it hurts too much to hold out for a miracle.

Now, he has a vibrant, intriguing woman lying safely in his lap, his hand moving through her long tangled tresses as she sleeps. She’s wonderful, and he _does_ care for her. Even if what they have is lacking. And he’s quite sure they’re both aware of it.

The screams in the background abate. It's only after, in the silence, that he realizes he's been cringing.

Sighing and brushing a hand over his neck, Castiel drags his backpack over and gently extricates himself from her encumbrance, lowering her head onto his bag. Everything feels upside-down lately. It makes him tired in a way that isn’t tangible.

The hallways are near pitch black with lack of windows, but he finds his way into the front room. People have dispersed since he left earlier and the girl, Kate, who'd been bit, seems to be passed out. She's been carefully placed on a cushioned bench and wrapped in a thick wool blanket.

Dean’s leaning against a weight machine of some kind, watching her. His plan had been to come see if Dean was okay, especially now that he can smell the scent of burnt flesh, but he hangs back, observing from the shadows, not sure if his company would be welcome. He doesn't hear Sam approach.

"You alright?" Sam's voice makes him jump. He looks up at the younger Winchester, trying to reform his features so they don't give him away.

"Yes, I'm fine. It's sad ... seeing someone in pain," he states.

"Are you talking about Kate, or Dean?"

Castiel focuses on the rubbery floor, debating what the right answer is.

"Both, I suppose."

The younger Winchester, who looks very grown up and wise to Cas' eyes, smiles sadly at him and walks away.

Dean looks over then, notices him standing quietly in the gap of the hallway. He's got no choice now and resolves himself for whatever comes. He walks across the room, stopping when he too can lean against the muscle-building contraption made of thick metal and pulleys.

"Any cuts or bruises?" Dean asks, surveying him up and down.

Cas shakes his head. "You?"

"Nah. All in one piece."

The night wears on, but they don't move or speak much more. They have very little to say it seems. When he's tired of standing, Cas sinks down to the floor, his head shifting on his shoulders to press against the metal bar on his right.

At first, he thinks he's dreaming, or that his ears are playing tricks on him, but very lightly, he can hear Dean humming to himself, barely-there words breaching across lips that Cas can picture clear as day without having to see them. He realizes they’re alone, with the exception of Kate unconscious in front of them.

"Dean?" Cas mouths the name in a weighted whisper, moving to glance up at the man, but Dean shushes him and drags his fingers over Cas' head.

Castiel’s not sure if it was meant to soothe or stop him from saying anything more, but he allows the touch. Grateful that those fingers don't disappear right away, but they stay, making lines through his hair, parting it at random with the pads of his fingers.

Dean resumes singing low, and the familiar sound and relaxing touch have him drooping down into a heap.

“ _We’ve been through this such a long, long time … Just tryin’ to kill the pain,”_ Dean’s voice lowers to a thrum, “ _If we could take the time to lay it on the line, I could rest my head just knowin' that you were mine…”_ Dean hums over a few lines and reforms words again, “ _Darlin' don't refrain ... Do you need some time on your own_?”

The rest of the song a series of lulls and dips from deep in his throat. Cas drifts off into anxious dreams, desperate to feel Dean’s fingers skate across his head for as long as he can.

 

When Castiel opens his eyes, it feels like a week has passed. He's slept better than he has in a long time. Probably since the very last night at the farmhouse. But he can't think about that.

Looking around, he realizes he's back beside Lexi in an uncomfortable mound against a cold cement wall. Either, he sleepwalked his way back, he'd dreamt the whole thing, or Dean had to have carried him.

Lexi wakes up shortly after and reaches over for him. Physical relationships are weird, he ponders as her mouth latches on to his with a low, "Good morning," spoken between them. She ruffles his hair and asks if he wants peanuts or canned tuna for breakfast. He grimaces, wanting to vomit.

In that moment, he wants nothing more than to spread his wings—that he no longer has—and fly back to the day he pulled Dean from hell. He'd clutch that man like a life-raft and fly them to a whole different universe. Actually, no ... a whole separate world in another dimension altogether. Where they could be friends again, where they could live in a world that wasn't dead, where, maybe, things could turn out differently.

  

 

**  
**


	20. Chapter 20

“We need more supplies,” Sam says to Cas one morning.

They’ve been residing in Helena for a few days now and it’s become clear that they need to find more substantial food, definitely some medicine, and ammo or more weapons if they can.

“I agree. Who are you wanting to send?” Castiel asks. Sam, unequivocally, is the leader of their group.

“You, Josh, Dean, and Sandra,” Sam clips off, his eyes trained on a few targets heading their way.

The two of them have been up on the roof of the police station since daybreak. After leaving the gym downtown, they’d headed north into the city to find better lodging. Last night was the first taste of what it would’ve been like to be an inmate, all of them branching out to secure a cell. Considering the uncomfortable nights he’s had in the past, sharing a lumpy mattress in a warm dry cell with Lexi wasn’t all that detestable.

He and Sam stare off over the ledge. Instant coffee in chipped mugs beside them, taking watch together. So far, things have been quiet. The quiet morning at odds with his sudden anxiety.

Going on a run for supplies with Dean will be the first extended time together since they left Chester. Part of him knows it’s a bad idea. Truth is, even deciding to move on, he’s still riddled with emotions. That night at the farmhouse, the forgotten one, weighs on him. It makes everything more raw than before. It kills him and shames him that there are days when he wishes Dean were a different man. Someone who wasn’t solely driven towards quick fucks, keeping a staunch distance from anything even remotely emotional.

Two sharp double shots from the gun startle him back to the moment and he watches the two infected Sam had marked go down.

“I guess I’ll go find the others,” he says bleakly as he stands out of his chair.

“Cas?” Sam peers up at him, his expression thoughtful.

He doesn’t answer, merely inclines his head.

“Did you and Dean get in a fight over the winter?”

Biting his lip, he has to turn away. “Not exactly. We’re just ... not that good of friends anymore I guess.” Because it hurts too much now.

“That’s bullshit, Cas. Try and talk to him today. Make amends.” Sam turns back to the scene below. “And you guys should probably find some wheels, we need enough stuff and you’ll need the space.”

Cas hasn’t moved since he stood, but now he nods and walks off.

Make amends? he thinks as he takes the stairs back down. There’s nothing to make amends for. There’s just pain and longing and, on Dean’s part ... indifference. Castiel sees no remedy.

An hour later, the four of them are loaded with a few weapons and are heading down the street a block past the station. Castiel stays by Sandra, an older woman who’s kind to him. She’s not a heavy-set woman by any means, but she’s softer around the midsection than most of them are. Her hair is dull brown, lighter than his own, but the length is the same.

“Where are we headed?” she asks.

Piping up from behind him, Dean says, “Hospital first. We need meds more than anything else. Kate’s doing alright, but she needs some pain meds and we could use some more antibiotics.”

Dean pauses to knife a few infected nearby.

Josh continues were he left off, “After that, we’re thinkin’ we’d hit up the grocery stores. Get whatever food supplies we can find. We’re deciding to hang here for a little longer so we’ll need it.” The man’s heavy boots hit the pavement harder than the rest. Dean has a surprisingly light gait.

“She’ll do,” says Dean, pointing down the road to a black Jeep Grand Cherokee.

“Sandra, take watch with me, will ya?” Josh points her towards the other end of the road and she levels her gun and walks off. Josh seems to wink at Dean before he turns in the other direction. It leaves Castiel and Dean standing a couple dozen feet from the Jeep. Alone.

“C’mon, let’s get this done.” Dean brushes past him, his eyes scanning the few properties across the street. One was a burger joint, and another a clothing store. The rest of the shops don’t draw his attention. There’s a lot of debris in the roads and by the time they come up in front of the Jeep, Sandra and Josh are out of sight.

Castiel hasn’t said more than two words since they left the jail. All he can manage is to not look at Dean.

“You remember what I taught ya?” Dean asks, his face blank and detached.

“Um, I think so.” Cas shakes his head to get himself in the game and tries the door. It’s not locked, which isn’t really a surprise. Inside he searches for keys and finds none. “No keys,” he relays to Dean.

“Pop the hood for me.”

Cas nods through the windshield and reaches low. Finding the lever easily, he pulls back and hears the faint pop. From the front seat he watches Dean reach under the edge, depress the latch and ease up the dusty black hood.

“Come give me a hand,” Dean calls to him.

Moving out of the car and rounding to the front, he finds Dean bent over the engine. It’s not an unfamiliar sight but it hits him in the pit of his stomach. Dean Winchester in his element.

“Battery is dead, but we can give’r some power manually.” Dean reaches over to the left side of the engine where there’s a lot of pulleys and gears. Sinking his hand in deep, he wrenches loose a couple wires and instructs Cas where to put them on the battery. “Don’t hold onto those, just wrap them as best you can under the head of those bolts there. Now come here.”

Castiel inches closer and Dean turns to face him. They’re closer in that moment than they’ve been in a long time and he can’t seem to catch his breath. Dean seems unaffected and dives straight into instructions.

Always a good teacher, Castiel remembers. Every stretch of their journey since it all began; he’s always been there to teach Cas things.

Dean and Sam taught him to swim, they taught him about guns, Dean taught him how to make rounds, Dean explained going down on a woman one night. Many, many months ago. It’s only recently that he’s been able to put the latter to use. And now, Dean’s showing him the best way to get a car working.

Dean’s working off a few long pulleys as he speaks, “Ya know, it always used to piss me off watching those damn zombie movies. People hop into cars and fire ’em up. Truth is, cars don’t fare well going weeks without being run, let alone months and years. Things you gotta look for are tires. Most tires go flat. It’s why I chose the Jeep, tires are still good. And then there’s the batteries, which are usually dead. But thing is, we don’t have jumper cables to give a boost so we gotta make do.”

Dean wipes his forehead with his sleeve and faces Cas again. “Creating energy is easier than people think. You just need motion or pressure, something like that. We already have an engine ready to work with. See these?” Castiel nods at the long rubber pulls he’s extracted out of the engine. “You put them together, like this—don’t actually need both but we gotta take both of ‘em out anyway—so like this, and then you wrap them around this motor. It’s basically a crank for the air conditioning, but we’re kind of jerry-rigging it so instead of it sending power back to the engine, it sends power to the battery. And that’s another thing you need to know, all power works like a loop, got it?” Cas nods again, standing close enough he can smell it when Dean begins to perspire in the afternoon heat. “You can’t have power just end, it needs to run through for something to work. Okay, now, take each end of this, and work it up and down as fast as you can for as long as you can. Sound easy enough?”

Dean steps over to give him room and hands off the two black ends of the straps. Immediately Castiel gets into a rhythm, pulling up and down in counter movements of the strap. The subtle notch ticks of the motor cranking are the only sound save for a few crows in the distance. As he works, Dean lounges beside him, face turned up to the sun, idling against the bumper. The movement is more of a workout than he expected and his arms begin to tire, and sweat beads along his hairline.

“Dean?”

“Hmm?”

“What was that song you were singing the other night?”

Dean squints but doesn’t look over. “November Rain. Why?”

For a brief second, he pauses his motions. “I liked it.”

“Well, it’s a kickass song. Nothin’ not to like. Keep going. You need to maintain the flow of energy for probably ten minutes.”

Cas looks back at the engine, hyper aware of Dean beside him. “Could you sing it now? You know ... to pass the time?” Why is he torturing himself this way?

A long minute passes with only the sound of his efforts breaking the silence. It surprises him when he starts to hear a low hum from his left. And that’s all it is at first, a hum.

After a bit, words start to form. They’re muted and he can barely make them out. Dean is murmuring the song, as though he’s singing it himself.

Castiel catches bits and pieces of it.

“ _I know it’s hard to keep an open heart, when even friends seem out to harm you.”_ Dean hums over the next bit, his voice rising again on, “ _Sometimes I need some time on my own, sometimes I need some time all alone ... everybody needs some time on their own.”_

A lot of words go by too low for him to make out and he realizes that he’s stopped working the pulley altogether and Dean hasn’t noticed. Straightening from his bend over the engine, Castiel turns and faces Dean’s profile suffused by the sun.

All at once, the humming cuts off and Dean looks at him. Time catches like a loose thread on a broken nail and he can’t be sure he’s breathing. A shadow from a drifting cloud passes overhead and Cas moves a fraction closer.

He could kiss Dean, he realizes. It would be clear-headed and sober, and there would be no forgetting things.

“Dammit, Cas!” Dean barks suddenly, shoving him out of the way and grabs the two straps that he’d left forgotten over the engine. “Get the fuck in the car and I’ll tell you when to connect the wires. You remember that part, don’t you?”

For a split-second, Cas is a heartbeat away from punching Dean in the face and saying, ‘ _I remember a lot of things!’_ Instead, he wipes his face of whatever expression he’s wearing and climbs into the driver’s seat.

⊢≬⊣

Dean grinds his teeth and points his gun. They’re at the hospital, ready to clean the place out of whatever’s left.

In his head, he’s still cursing. Fucking weeks, _months,_ have gone by and Cas has basically ignored him. Then the guy goes and falls asleep next to his leg and now this? The look he’d given Dean by the car was something else.

Whatever.

Dean’s not in any kind of mood to dwell on it. Whatever the fuck happened to their friendship over the winter is what it is. Dean isn’t some teenage emo moron who’s gonna spend every waking moment trying to fix something he didn’t break. Granted, he’s not entirely sure that it wasn’t him who did the breaking. Either way, he’s weaponized and about to enter a massive building with two others and who knows what they’ll find on the other side, so he needs to give his dumb thoughts a kick to the curb.

With a low whistle, Dean sends Josh ahead of him. The guy’s a better shot. And yeah, it stings a bit to admit that but in this life, Dean’s not about to turn his nose up. Sandra is hanging back in the Jeep, ready to honk and haul them back if needed. Besides, leaving a running car out in this world is like a neon fucking light. Gotta have someone there to protect it.

Back behind him on the right, Castiel edges along the side of the hallway. A small knife in one hand, a gun in the other. Dean’s senses are on high alert but he’s not all that worried.

It’s dark mostly, save for a few swaths of light breaking up the hallway from the open doors of patient rooms.

Josh turns back and points up to a sign. The sign’s got directions towards emerg and they start moving in that direction.

The progress is slow, each turn a gamble. Rounding any corner could present a swarm of infected. Or worse.

A few minutes later, they’re heading past the cafeteria when they hear the distinct sound of furniture scraping across the linoleum. The cafeteria isn’t on this level. It’s below them, over the edge of the railing that borders the hallway. They’ve already passed the stairs heading down and Dean inches back to the wall to keep out of sight. Josh and Cas do the same.

They two guys move close to him so they can whisper. “Infected or worse?” Josh asks, pulling the rifle around to his front.

“Let’s hope for option number one, boys.” Dean slides his machete out of the sheath by his hip.

Looking to his left, Dean watches that familiar fierce determination sweep across Cas’ features and he’s immediately reminded of the past.

Cas takes lead towards the stairs, and Josh is staying up top with the sharpshooter they’d snagged from the police station. One of the few left, too. It’s a fucking sweetass gun.

As he and Cas are moving slowly down the steps, another sound breaks the silence. A low murmur that sounds awfully like a taunt. From a couple doors just past the open caf, a plastic garbage container comes flying through.

Moving quick now, he and Cas fly down the rest of the stairs and move in fast. Dean slides over to the far side of the door and Cas stays on the opposite side. Motioning to Josh overhead, he starts to creep in front, ready to push the double-swinging door inward.

Barging inside, Dean holds up his gun. “How about we all show our faces, huh?”

He can feel Cas beside him, knife ready. The room greets them with utter silence, but neither of them are fooled. The quiet only tells them that whatever is in here is smart enough to shut up.

“C’mon now, we’re not gonna hurt nobody. Unless of course you’re an evil motherfucker, then it’s open season.”

“Dean,” Cas chastises him. “It could be a survivor.”

Dean snorts. “We’ve been at this a long time now Cas, there aren’t that many survivors—”

From nowhere, a giant soup pot comes sailing towards them and they hear a scramble at the far side of the room. An assload of tables and cupboards block their path.

“That way. Go!” Dean pushes Cas to the far side and takes the north side of the room for himself. “Come out, come out, fuckface…”

Something rushes across the end of the room, turning quick to check Dean’s progress as it beelines for another door off to the side. In that small moment, Cas yells to him.

“The mirror, Dean! _Wraith!”_

Ah, Christ. Dean puts away his machete, which is _not_ made of silver, and digs out the fancy letter-opener that he’s kept with him as the only silver object that he’s deemed worthy of space amongst the rest of his stuff. He and Sam have had to cut down on their supernatural repertoire of weapons.

“Get over here!” he whispers sharply across the space. Cas jogs over and they’re already moving through the door when she leaps out and tries to get a hand on them. Which would be game over pretty quick. Dean tucks his arms in and kicks instead.

Her slim body jerks back, kinky blonde hair whipping forward to frame her round face. But it doesn’t bring her down. Straightening up and adjusting her clothes, the wraith curls up her lip and focuses her wide-set brown eyes on him.

“Bring me the good stuff,” she croons, raising her arm to showcase the deathspike extending out from her slim wrist. “I heard you walking through the halls and I got so excited! You have no idea how hungry I am.” Every other word out of her mouth is long and whiny. “Hmm, c’mon, we don’t even have to get down to business right now. One touch, boys, one little touch.”

Dean spins the letter opener between his fingers. “Just try and stick that in me and you’ll regret it for about the three seconds it takes me to kill with you this.”

“No one needs to stick anybody, sweetheart. That can wait.” The threat disappears back into her arm and she saunters towards them. “Just a little _crazy_ foreplay first.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

A rich laugh bubbles out of her and she starts to step backwards. Dean and Cas both move in closer. They shift once more and it’s then she makes her move, jumping forward with her arm out, hands ready to make contact. Dean reaches up and deflects it, intentions on sinking the silver into her skull when she spins abruptly out of his reach. The way she moves is practiced. She’s been out here a long time, he imagines.

“Oh, the boy’s not as quick as I am,” she taunts.

“But I am,” Cas cuts in, arms locking across her shoulders from behind, having snuck around. Dean’s eyes flare wide at the skin-on-skin going on. Cas staggers but manages to hold on.

Dean doesn’t waste a second; he plunges the four-inch letter opener through her heart.

As she drops like a stone, Cas stumbles forward and trips over her body. Dean manages to grab him and winds up pulling him into a hug.

“You okay?”

Cas sags against him. “She was in my head,” he says.

“Yeah, I remember the feeling.”

Cas’ heartbeat pounds against Dean’s chest, and he rubs his hand down the guy’s back. All the way down the spine until it curves. Any lower and things get tricky.

Clearing his throat, Dean pulls back. “You good?”

“Yes, Dean. Um, thank you.”

As they look around, avoiding each other, they realize they’ve stumbled into the backroom of the kitchen and there are shelves and shelves of food.

Merry Christmas, Dean Winchester.

“Fucking jackpot.” Dean smiles.

By the time they make it back to the police station, they have a semi-working Jeep full of goodies. Cans of all sorts of stuff, boxes of cereal, rice, and some medicine. They even snagged extra sheets for some of the beds in the jail.

Dean is about to ask Cas if he wants to have a drink with him and the other guys, a celebration of sorts.

Maybe after some drinks they can talk about what’s going on. Maybe they can actually get past whatever went wrong over the winter—

“Cas!” Lexi skips down the hall and launches herself at the guy, arms wrapping around his neck, her pink lips crashing against Cas’ thick ones. And she has to go and make that damn smacking sound. _Mwa!_

So much for enjoying the food he brought back.

“I’m glad you didn’t die,” she says, smirking at her lover.

Dean beelines down the hall and manages not to barf on his boots.

 

**  
**


	21. Chapter 21

Fuck, emotions are stupid.

After organizing all the stuff they’d picked up from their run, Dean decides to head outside and try his luck at organizing his own thoughts, deciding that ignoring them—as he’d originally planned to do—might make him insane. And if he wanted to be insane, he would’ve let that psycho bitch put a hand on him and lace him up with her own dose of cuckoo.

But so far, it’s not going very well; this whole ... thinking things over venture.

Parking his ass on the curb outside the police station, his eyes skim across the storefronts, wondering if an infected will stagger by and make use of his knife.

Things with Cas are a disaster, and unravelling the mess they’d made is too big a task to take on by himself. Or at all.

Let’s be real, he tells himself. Cas is with Lexi, bottom line. And if he happens to be a bit jealous. Whatever.

At least he’s admitting it. That’s something, right. God, it’s like twelve steps of AA. Instead of the trademark phrase: “I’m an alcoholic”, it’s “Hi, I’m Dean Winchester and I’m attracted to my guardian angel”. Former guardian angel, he corrects. Does that make it better or worse?

Not that any of these thoughts are groundbreaking. The predicament is the same no matter what. Dean is having issues and there’s really nothing he can do but ignore it. And besides, even if Cas weren’t with Lexi, Dean would never act on his desires.

The front door of the gym opens, but Dean doesn’t turn around.

“Are you okay?”

Fucking perfect. Dean groans and fists his hair, wondering if he has it in him to have a conversation with Cas. Why the hell is Cas even talking to him anyway—the guy’s been keeping a good distance for a long now.

“Peachy. You?”

Cas doesn’t bother to take a seat. “Dean, I know this is long overdue but ... I’m sorry for handling things poorly over the winter.”

Dean scoffs and stares at the pavement. “So what, we’re friends now?”

“Were we even friends before?”

Talk about blindsided. “Yes, we were fucking friends before, what’s wrong with you? And before what?” Annoyed, Dean spins at his waist and glares up at the guy.

“Friends?” Cas repeats, his jaw tight. “Right. And friends use each other, do they?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean blasts back.

Cas sucks back a breath, like a dam is about to burst open. And it does.

“I was never anything more than a tool to you before this. You only ever wanted me around when you needed my help. And I foolishly thought things had changed. But they didn’t, did they?. All I am is something for you to use, to take out your anger on, to fix you, to be a warm body for you to rut against—”

“—Hey!”

“All of it for you. I never asked for anything, I never let it bother me before the infection hit, but it does now. It has, for a while.” Cas stares down at his feet.

Apparently Dean is a selfish asshole. Again, not exactly a news flash, is it. The mature thing to do would be to apologize. But Dean isn’t mature. “So I suck as a person. Thanks. Makes me feel a world of better right now.”

“Goddammit, Dean, why do you do that? Why can’t you hear what I’m saying, I’m explaining why I was angry. Care to extend me the same courtesy?”

“I was stir crazy, man, that’s all. And yeah, I guess I’m a selfish dick. But sometimes shit needs to get done and I needed you and there wasn’t time to consider your delicate feelings about it. You want an apology, ‘cause I’ve already said I was sorry for being an ass—what more do you want from me?!”

Brazen with anger, Dean rises up to his knees and throws his arms out. “Oh, wait—I’m sorry, is this better? I bet, huh. The former angel in you probably prefers humans on their knees.”

“Dean, stop. I didn’t come out here to fight with you.”

“No? Cause you’re doing an awesome job.”

His name slips out soft between Cas’ lips. A sound of defeat if ever there was one. Dean feels like shit. From far left-field, a thought storms into his skull and it’s about the worst idea he’s ever had. And somehow, still very selfish.

Dean might be pissed and defensive, but that doesn’t mean Cas is wrong.

“Let’s even the score then.”

Squinting, Cas looks him over. “What do you mean?”

“I’m a jerk and I used you. Message received loud and clear. So why not give me a taste of my own medicine, I mean, fuck, I’m already on my knees.” A bitter laugh ripples out with a nervous edge and his stomach twists into knots.

Overcome with confusion, Cas rears back and does a once-over on him. “Dean…”

“What?” Dean asks insensitively, his mind in chaos. “I may suck at being a friend, but I’m actually really good at this.” True story. It’s been a while, but sucking cock has to be like riding a bike.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Probably a lot, he considers. “Just doin’ my part to repair the friendship!” Dean fires back sarcastically.

“By doing ... this,” Cas trails off and averts his eyes, like he can’t stand to even think about it.

Dean rubs across his mouth. “Ya know what? Never mind. Deal’s off the table. Go back to your girlfriend, Cas. Friends are overrated.”

Standing there for an extended breath, Cas narrows his eyes and focuses all his attention on Dean. Not one emotion is clear in the stiff set of his features.

Cas reaches up and rubs along the back of his neck, leaving his hand cupped around the back and lowers his head, blue eyes pinned on Dean. And in that final look? Pity.

It’s not what Dean expected and it royally ticks him off. He’s got half a mind to tell Cas to fuck off.

Instead, Cas stares straight down into his soul and says, “I really hope you’re happy one day, Dean. I do.”

“Who says I’m not?”

Without another word, Cas turns and goes back inside.

Man he wishes he could kill something right now. Or fight, or fuck. Some sort of physical explosion to push aside his rampant thoughts.

Sitting back on his heels, Dean tries to breathe and force his mind to ignore whatever revelations are stirring in the depths of his psyche.

Not in the mood, Freud.

Deep down he can sense something’s wrong. But he’s scared of it. Scared of whatever emotions he’s kept locked down tight his whole fucking life.

Lost in his head, he doesn’t notice someone standing in front of him until they speak.

“You’ll survive,” says Josh.

Dean glances up to find his friend watching him with concern. And no surprise there. Considering he’s squatting on the sidewalk with his face in his hands. It probably looks like he’s taking the most emotional shit of his life.

“Do you even know what’s wrong?” Dean asks, suspecting that he does.

Josh King pegs him with a look. “Do you?”

Shaking out every ounce of stress wracking his body, Dean moves back to his spot on the curb and glances up at the setting sun over the long wall of two-storey buildings.

Eventually, Josh plunks down beside him and bumps Dean’s shoulder with his own. All the words of comfort that Dean needs.

Time passes and not one infected goes past. Sam said something about them being drawn to the outer borders of the City. It would be nice to think of that as a good thing. It’s probably not. No doubt means a monster or something worse is drawing them that way.

Out of the silence, Josh asks him, “Are we watching a sunset together?”

Dean laughs and, fuck, it’s a relief. “Yeah, guess we are.”

“Ain’t this romantic and shit.”

“Fuck you, man.”

Chuckling side by side, Dean decides that Josh knows exactly what’s going on with him, and thankfully, knows him well enough that now is not the time to pester him about it.


	22. Chapter 22

Since they’ve been in Helena, things have been easier than being out on the road. The score at the hospital was abundant, they’ve been fairly safe, and the nights have been comfortable.

Which is great. They’re getting top marks for survival. As for Dean, he’s been taking a beating by other means. Less obvious than perpetual starvation, but somehow worse.

It’s a bright spring afternoon, the sunlight pouring into the cheery diner that he and Sam are in. They’re actually taking free time and playing some fuckin’ cards. The green and white themed restaurant is empty and only a block and a half down the road from the police station.

The police station, much like the rest of his survival report card, has been perfect. They’d found all the keys so it’s nice and secure. Got enough beds for everyone. Not that the ratio’s been one body per mattress like he’d prefer, but it’s been a good stay. In some respects.

Utterly horrible in others.

Thankfully, they won't be staying that much longer. It's not smart to keep to one place for any good stretch of time. They’ve already come across a wraith, and Sam is certain there are vamps at the edge of town that they need to watch out for. Infected hang around, but their numbers are low, and getting lower. Taking the majority out that first day was a big win, but their ever dwindling numbers in the town is worrisome.

Sam pulls him back into the moment. “Can you believe Cas has been hooking up with Lexi for like two months?”

His brother’s hazel eyes are like laser beams across the table. The guy is sporting a grin, but Dean feels like he knows more than he lets on. Pretending things are hunky-dory, Sammy slaps down an eight of spades on the stack in the middle.

Shit. He honestly can’t remember what the fuck they’re playing.

Dean forces a smile. “Yeah. Crazy.”

Meanwhile he’s been cozying up on a lumpy stained mattress in a jail cell. Alone.

And Cas, his former best friend, is getting conjugal visits down the hall. Just _awesome_. Dean throws down a Jack of spades from his hand and gets a questioning assessment from his brother. Not a Jack? Damn, what the fuck is this game? For a moment, he's tempted to fling the cards in the air and throw a string of curses. But he doesn’t.

He's surprised that Sam doesn't ask him where his head’s at, Sam’s normally all up in his business. Maybe the only thing keeping Sam off his case is that the guy seems a bit distracted himself. Dean wonders who the girl was that Sam is reluctant to talk about. Poor Sammy, kid’s got serious bad juju when it comes to ladies.

Back at the jail that night, Dean takes off in search of the few guys he gets along with. It helps that they're always game for a round of drinks or two. No one ever drinks too hard. It's not the best idea to get wasted and then wind up getting attacked. No one wants to die because they were an idiot.

He finds Matty, a former steel worker, and Kyle, whose former occupation remains a mystery, in the visitation room of the jail. Matty's name doesn't suit his person; a dude about six feet, real thick, straight brown hair, a mountain-man beard and a quiet personality. He's a hardened kind of guy covered in tats, the type that could eat glass and grin while doing it. It's Dean's kinda man and the two sit companionably side-by-side while Kyle laughs and chatters at them about this one time he and his buddies decided to go midnight tubing in a high-traffic river and almost got ploughed over by a cargo ship.

" ... And that's my advice to you guys: Never, _ever_ get plastered and think a major river is your personal playground. But fuck, who’m I kidding, it was fucking hilarious!" Kyle laughs loud and takes a sip of his amber drink. He's got curly dark hair, almost the same shade as Cas', Dean notices. But brown eyes instead of blue. Based on the subtle olive tone of his skin, Dean knows he’s got a mixed background of sorts but can’t pin down any one ethnicity. Kyle's young-ish, but it's hard to tell. He's one of those people that when they smile, their eyes light up to make them seem younger than they are.

"The good old days of being young and stupid, am I right?" Dean lifts his glass and the two reach over to clink agreeably.

Lying in bed an hour later, Dean tries to fight his way into a sleep. But squeezing his eyes shut isn’t doing the trick. Big fucking surprise.

In the days before the world went to shit, he would’ve drank himself stupid and passed the fuck out. But that's not really an option anymore. He wishes he were on watch tonight so that he'd have something to do. A couple of the people he hasn't really talked to yet are up. Some thick woman from the southwest named Marie that has a sweet smile, but also looks like she could beat someone with a crowbar. The guy on deck with her ... Dean tries to picture him, Paul or Peter or something? A shorter guy with a pot belly that isn't so bright but he's friendly as all hell. That sort of chipper, annoying type that you wanna hate so bad but they're just so fucking nice. It's irritating.

After what feels like hours of lying on his back staring at the off-white cement ceiling of the jail cell, Dean gets up and wanders the halls. On a whim, avoiding the bullpen out front, he goes left through a thick steel door down a long hallway to the interrogation rooms.

He’s no stranger to these rooms. Both sides of them, too.

No one sleeps down here and he expects to find himself blessedly alone, but a curt scrape of metal on concrete draws his attention a few feet further down the hall.

Eyebrows drawn together, Dean turns into the observation room—

And freezes. His stomach dropping to his knees.

Right there, through the two-way glass is Castiel. And the guy’s not alone. The former angel's white long-sleeve shirt is shoved up to his ribs, his jeans and boxers down around his thighs.

Below him is Lexi, all sprawled out under Cas’ powerful frame as he thrusts hard. His ass muscles flexing with each drive into the lithe body below him.

 _“Oh fuck, Cas ... yes, fucking yes,”_ Lexi laughs in pleasure, her delicate fingers scratching along Cas’ arched spine.

A resounding groan vibrates the room on the other side of the glass and Dean’s knees almost buckle. He’d know that deep gravelly tone anywhere.

It makes him nauseous.

Masochist that he is, Dean can't rip his eyes off the scene in front of him, staring at his friend digging his hips between two tanned female legs. For several seconds he wonders what's really bothering him about it. Does he actually want to trade places with Lexi?

Fantasies are one thing. But the way he feels watching Castiel fuck someone else makes him wonder about his own motivations.

Enraged at himself, Dean storms off in search of his brother. Blood boiling, mind spinning, his hands shaky.

Not the best combo, but he’ll find some way to deal with it.

He locates Sam in his cell, asleep on his stomach. Dean shakes him awake. "Where's the silencer?" he asks, feeling the rough sound of his voice vibrate his sternum.

"Dean?" Sam answers groggily. "Why the hell do you want that?"

"Where is it?" Dean demands, starting to rummage through Sam's shit in the room. He finds it under a pile of his brother's clothes. He's nearly out the cell door when Sam leaps up and grabs him by the arm, yanking him back.

"What happened? What’s wrong with you?" asks Sam crustily.

Dean tears his arm free of Sam's grip and tries to lower the temperature in his face before he speaks. "I just need to go shoot some fucking dead people, alright. You got a fucking problem with that?"

His younger brother shifts back out of his space, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Yeah fine, get your shit sorted or whatever the hell's goin' on, but don't disturb anyone. We got a good thing going here."

Dean can barely restrain a derisive snort, "Oh yeah, it's fucking awesome."

He curses to himself the whole way up the stairs, trying to ignore the reason why he's fucking losing his shit to begin with. What the hell happened to his self-control?

Mother of Christ, he’s already gotten over this bullshit once. Why the hell is it so fucking hard now? He and Cas had been damn copacetic until the winter stay at Chez Farmhouse of Hell! A lot happened, but he can’t pin down the tipping point.

Cas thinks their friendship is a façade for Dean to simply use the guy as whatever tool he needs in the moment. Which isn’t true at all. But ... he can see how it would look that way.

Is that really it, he wonders? Did Cas just suddenly decide he was done.

As he’s stepping out onto the roof, he mentally shoves the endless questions back down the stairs and slams the door.

Over on the parapet, Marie and P- _whatever-his-face_ whip back at the sound, and stare cautiously at him.

Based on how he feels, he probably looks murderous.

“I’m taking over,” he says, waving his gun at them in a gesture to kick them out.

“Sam says two people at a time,” Mr. P argues in a reticent voice. It’s a wonder the guy’s survived this long.

“Pretty sure my brother would tell you I’m worth two of you in this department, no offence. Now get the fuck gone.”

Both of them ease up off the ledge and head towards the door behind him. As Marie’s walking past, she scolds him like a mother, “Where I’m from we don’t treat people like dirt, Dean.”

Dean laughs, a bitter, abrasive sound and faces her. “Please tell me you’re fucking joking. I might look like some dumbass dropout, but I’m not ignorant. And really not in the mood to debate the lacking merits of southern values.”

All she does is shake her head and follow the other guy to the stairwell through the thick steel door.

Blessedly alone, Dean looks over at the cheap folding chair already up on the roof. He sets it up and plunks down onto the hard plastic, screwing the silencer on his gun as he surveys the scene below the edge. It takes a bit for his eyes to adjust; they're up a good forty feet or so.

He’s happy to see some infected mulling around, dragging their dead bodies from point A to point B. Propping his elbow on his knee for support, he aims loosely, not able to focus through the heat pounding in his veins.

The first pop of the gun is louder than most would think. A silencer isn't actually all that silent. But at least it isn't the deafening crack that could normally be heard for miles. He's clipped one of the bodies in the shoulder, jerking it sideways but not taking it down.

Concentrating in an effort to make out the slim body against the shadows, his mind flashes back to Cas fucking Lexi. Powerful and gorgeous. Hands buried in her long blonde hair.

Dean can precisely recall the curved shape of Cas’ ass and the way it hardens, tensing as he buries his cock.

Squeezing the trigger, Dean lets another bullet sail out into the air. The errant ammo hits a wrecked car, the glass busting louder than the sound of the gun. It draws the attention of the dead people he's trying to kill. Shit, isn't that ironic?

Another flash. Another painful shot of Cas fucking someone that isn’t him.

Another bullet.

Annnnd how about another.

Well, this is bound to be spectacular night, he thinks sarcastically.

"Wanna tell me what's got you wasting ammo?" Kate asks, creeping up on him from behind. He can feel his jaw clench at having company. At least she’s a better companion than most.

"Just a rough day," he explains.

Through the dark, his eyes track one particularly laboursome dead chick. He moves the long barrel to follow her path across the street. He's not targeting her because she's blonde, but it certainly helps with his current rage.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks, plopping cross-legged beside him on the cement rooftop.

Exhaling with impatience, Dean lowers his gun and picks up Sam’s jacket lying forgotten next to him. He hands it over so she isn’t parking her ass on the cold flattop.

Meeting her caramel eyes for a quick second, he replies, "Wouldn't even know where to begin." And ain't that the truth.

They're silent for a while. He sends out a couple more bullets—getting one infected down and ripping through the neck of another. He can feel the air tense, and knows she's gonna give another go at the talking thing. Christ, why do women always wanna talk; it's so annoying.

And then he has to laugh, cause heck, Sammy’s usually the same.

"I'm not that young," Kate announces, her low voice nervous. The statement’s light-years away from what Dean’d been expecting so it takes a moment for him to organize a reply.

One look over confirms it. Yup. "Young enough," he says.

"C'mon Dean, the world's done. Structure’s gone to shit. There's no more rules—"

No rules? _There’s no rules in dreams._ Dean squints into the night, his brain drifting back to something hazy. He puts every effort into unscrambling the memory, but the fog lays across it like soap scum on a motel shower door.

"…make each other feel good," Kate's saying. Whatever the middle of her speech was, Dean’s sure it’s all wrong anyway. Even as distant as he must seem, she draws up to her knees beside him. Like he could make the stink of the dead go away for an hour.

Doesn’t she see how screwed up he is right now?

"I don't want anything more than this, you know," she qualifies, seeing his doubt. "I know I'm not who you really want."

Turning away, Dean avoids the sympathy in her eyes. Not even a little does he want to guess who she might think he wants. Or how she knew he was up here. Or worse, maybe she didn't care who was up here—maybe she would’ve made the offer to any willing party.

But deep down, he knows that's not the case. She sees some part of herself in him, and though he doesn’t know her backstory, he might be able to take a guess. Despite her soft, mild exterior, it’s obvious she’s had her share of crap to deal with.

Her small hand skirts up the length of his calf and up over his knee. Dean swallows and fights back his conscience because even though he’s not in the mood, he might need this the way she does.

The white bandage around her forearm catches his eye and his mind does a rerun of burning her flesh with a fucking BBQ lighter. The memories of hell that stemmed from that action were immediate and jarring.

Damn, he’d been glad that Cas had come to sit by him. The moment Cas said his name, Dean knew he wasn’t ready for whatever conversation might unfold. Not after doing that.

Reaching down to play with Cas’ hair had been instinctual. And the best part? Cas had sank into it. But the moment felt stolen. As if he were taking advantage of Cas’ initial plan to offer comfort.

When the guy had fallen asleep, exhausted from the fight. Dean should’ve stopped running his fingers across his scalp. But he didn’t. And before long, he realized that Cas wasn’t his to touch like this.

Before the sun came up, he picked up his friend and carried him back, placing him carefully on the floor on a pile of worn jackets next to Lexi.

Kate squeezing his thigh pulls him back to the rooftop, to the beautiful woman offering up herself.

"Dean, I'm twenty-six, and based on what Sam has told me, that's not a problem for you, I know you're hurting right now, and you know what? We all are. This place," she turns to look over at the road beyond, with its debris of broken cars and dead bodies, "is a Dr. Seuss nightmare. I've lost people, some are dead and others ... Look, tonight's one of those nights I don't want to think about the stuff I've seen, or the stuff I've had to do to survive this long. I know about things I never knew existed. I even know that you've saved the world a time or two—thanks for that,” she smiles. “So yeah, we're all suffering, and right now I just want to eject all my thoughts for a little while."

Kate, with her curly brown hair and caramel eyes, moves up awkwardly to kiss him. Her lips squish against his in a soft press. "Put the gun down."

Dean does, placing it off to the side but within reach. Kate slides up from kneeling beside him and runs her hands up his chest, her one leg smoothly rising over his thighs to straddle him. The warmth of her crotch rests solid against his zipper and Dean glances up at her, knowing he’s got a whole lot of nothing in his stare.

“It’s okay,” she says. Sweeping her thumb over his lips, she kisses his forehead. “We both just need to feel better—that’s all this is.”

Planting kisses down his face, he almost doubles over in tears with a strong urge to tell her that he needs Cas and that he hates Lexi. Man, isn’t that pathetic.

When she reaches his mouth, her full lips press solid against him. A wet tongue teases him, encouraging him to let her in. Dean opens his mouth to the slick warmth of another and finds that, even though this isn’t what he’s been craving, it’s better than being alone with his thoughts.

It takes more than normal to get on board. It would be embarrassing, if he cared. When she pulls him free of his pants, his dick needs some serious encouragement. It gets what it needs from the pleasant suction of her mouth.

Barely in the moment, Dean’s eyes flick down and he catches her looking up at him. She reaches out and grabs his hand, linking their fingers together. It grounds him in the here and now, and that’s exactly what he needs. Even though they know this is nothing more than a distraction from their own inner problems.

With his cock hard and wet, she comes back to his lap having pulled off her jeans and underwear and is about to sink down when he stops her, his hands gripping her cushioned hips.

"Wait, wait, uh, you have a condom or anything?"

Pain, fleeting and curious crosses over her face and she licks her lips. “I, uh, had an accident when I was younger. Can’t have kids. As for—"

“—I don’t care.”

Dean doesn’t ask about the accident. He reaches up for her face and kisses her instead, gathering that she’s more about touch than words. Same as he is.

When she pulls back form the kiss, her eyes seem to ask him if he’s good to go.

Dean reaches down to hold himself in position as the best answer to the question. Returning to him for a kiss, her tongue works inside and circles around as she lowers into his lap, her body engulfing him in slick, soft heat. It courses up the length of his spine.

An image of Cas assaults him and he beats it back.

Instead, he forces himself relax into the moment. It’s awkward in a way, to sit there with his head hanging back, watching her at a low angle as she rides up and down his shaft.

It seems backwards, doesn't it? Sex shouldn't be relaxing, but it is. He can feel her tightening around him, louder moans leaving her mouth as she searches for her own release. With her hands braced on his shoulders, the white of the bandage draws his focus.

Dean does something he hasn't done since he first got back from hell. He remembers torturing in vivid detail. The reaction is instantaneous, and he loathes it. Other than Sam, he can't admit to anyone how much he enjoyed it. How fucked in the head it made him for a while. And even now, he can get off on it when nothing else seems to work. Not that he'd ever tell a soul.

It’s repulsive to admit, even in the privacy of his mind, that it's the disturbing memories he draws on to bring him closer to the edge. But just as he's close, he hoists her up because there's no way in hell he's shooting his load inside her—even if she can't get pregnant—it just feels wrong _._

Kate's wiping damp, stray curls from her face as he places her on her feet and kneels in front of her. Tipping his head back, he presses his face right up into the juncture at her hips and licks down on the top of her wet slit, fucking at her with his tongue while he fists himself using the slick of her on his cock to fuel the way. When she's shaking, moans gone quiet before the storm, he slows down, flicking his tongue at measured intervals to bring her over.

Lost in the clutches of the orgasm, her hands grab onto his head and pull him closer. His tongue flicks hard against her clit until she shoves him back, overloaded by sensation.

Seconds after she's done, he's able to find his own release.

Not with the images of Hell, but with the memory of Cas' flexing ass, wondering for the span of a breath, how good it would feel to dig his fingers into those firm cheeks while Cas pushes his cock in deep.

No stupid fantasy, no stupid porn plot. But the real deal.

Dean finishes harder and louder than he would've guessed when they'd started, and it surprises them both.

⊢≬⊣

The door to the stairwell clangs shut, indicating that someone has finally come back down from the roof.

Standing just out of sight in the gun room at the back of the building, Cas eases up and looks through the crack in the door by the hinges out into the hallway.

Standing six feet away is Dean, his hand extended out to cup Kate’s cheek. He leans forward and brushes his lips against hers.

In a flash, it’s years ago to the moment that Dean kissed Anna.

“Thank you,” Dean whispers to her.

“Get some sleep,” she says back. Giving Dean one last peck, she walks back down the hall towards the cells.

After she’s long gone, Dean releases a shaky breath and looks around but it’s clear he thinks he’s alone. Leaning back against the door, his former friend looks close to tears.

Cas wonders why. Especially considering that he and Kate obviously had sex.

Is it possible that he’s upset because of how broken their friendship’s become? Or is it something else? The last time they spoke, well, fair enough to say that it hadn’t gone as planned. The only good thing that came out of it was that he saw Dean was struggling with something. Not since he’d been an angel had he read Dean so clearly, able to look past all his defenses.

When Dean offered to be used, Cas understood how torn he was.

And still is, by the looks of things.

In the distance, another set of footsteps make their way down the hall. Dean doesn’t look up; he’s expecting them. No doubt Kate had someone come back to keep watch knowing that Dean needed rest.

It’s clear to him that the right thing to do right now would be to come out from his hiding spot and say something.

But he can’t bring himself to move. He never should have come this way. He should be back in his cell with Lexi.

Thinking of her alone on the narrow mattress reminds him of earlier that evening. She’d led him towards the empty interrogation rooms with sex on her mind. And he followed, because he loves the way she wants him. With passion and fire. It’s nice to be wanted.

She never minds much that he loses focus, or that he draws back from her when his thoughts go elsewhere.

On the way back to their cell, Castiel overhead Sam speaking to Josh in a low whisper. Ushering Lexi to go on and that he’d be right behind her, he stayed back and eavesdropped.

“I don’t know what do about him. My gut says that things need to work themselves out but it’s killing me to see my brother like this.”

“Man, you didn’t see him the other day.”

“Does he talk to you?”

Josh snorted. “What do you think?”

“Dumb question, I know.”

“What’s he doing now?”

“My bet? Up on the roof firing off some rounds.”

Cas dropped the rest of the conversation and had come this way. At the last second, he’d ducked into the guns room to grab one for himself and it happened to be the exact moment that Kate jogged past and went up.

She never saw him—walked right past, through the door, and up the stairs.

It’s Sam now that walks past the room, and having both Sam and Dean on the other side of the door makes him feel terrible. How has it reduced to this? Hiding from the men he cares most about.

And for what?!

“Dean.”

The older brother looks up and stares back, a long thoughtful exchange between them. Dean clears his throat and says, “Gun’s up there for ya.”

“Thanks.” Sam moves closer and rests a hand on his shoulder, eyeing his only kin with concern. “Get some rest, man, I got it.”

Dean nods, his expression dull and lifeless.

After Dean disappears down the hallway and Sam’s up on the roof, Cas finally slips out from behind the door and walks quietly back to his cell.

When he crawls in behind Lexi and tucks his arm around her waist, he feels incredibly dishonest.

 


	23. Chapter 23

June is nothing but constant rain, it’s like that damn scene in Forrest Gump.   _Little bitty stingin’ rain … big ol’ fat rain. Rain that flew in sideways. And sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath._

Dean almost forgets what dry clothes feel like.

And the further west they go, the wetter it gets. On the plus side, it’s warm.

Sam's taking a meandering northern route towards Washington State that brings them close to lakes and creeks. Not that they need more water.

One abnormally muggy day, the sky thick with layers of grey, they end up west of Great Falls in the Flatheads. They'd left Helena when raiders came in one afternoon. Both he and Sam knew that the group should've left far sooner than they did, but they'd gotten too comfortable.

‘Cept for Dean, of course.

He'd been with Kyle when they first saw a few stroll down the street. Detouring down back roads and ducking into buildings, they got back and informed the others that it was time to get the hell out of dodge. In a big town, it wouldn't have been obvious how many had been travelling with the raiders and instead of a confrontation; they left in small groups, each one taking a different route north-west.

Free of raiders, they’re setting up camp in the woods. On a log they're using as a big bench, Dean sits beside Sam, sharing a breakfast of canned tomatoes and vegetable soup. There's a shotgun propped over by a tall birch tree and he thinks about trying to go hunt something down for dinner. Across the open area of the camp, through the sparks of the fire that's still going, Cas is sitting with Lexi, who's laughing as she cleans up his overgrown beard with a razor.

"Want the rest?" Sam asks, extending his can over, his eyes watching the low flames in a daze. Dean grunts a negative and gets up, grabbing the shotgun on his way.

⊢≬⊣

Cas shifts to watch Dean stomp off, shoulders stiff, wondering what he plans to do with the shotgun. Dean knows better than to think the gun currently filled with salt-rounds is going to be useful against mammals. Maybe Dean doesn't remember the ghost they'd run into in the small town before they breached the edge of the forest on the east.

It’s no surprise. Dean’s been sour for a while now, getting worse it seems day by day. Every time he’s tried to talk to Dean, it’s gone poorly.

Lexi’s slim fingers grasp his chin and tilt his head to the side. Looking down at her on an angle, he catches the light smile on her face as she works. Though he doesn’t mind having hair on his face, he does prefer it to be clean and trim.

Trying once more to catch a glimpse of Dean, far off through the trees now, he manages to annoy Lexi.

“Cas, stop moving.”

Forcing himself still, he tries not to feel regret and shame over continuing this farce of a relationship. But she sees it too.

Both of them stuck in what they started, knowing it’s not what it should be.

Sam once explained to him the definition of the slang word ‘meh’. It seems to suit his current situation. Nothing excites him. Not Lexi, unfortunately. And definitely not the way they’re living.

"There,” she exclaims proudly, lightly patting his cheek.

“Hm, yes. Thank you.”

"Anytime. So you good, hot stuff? I'm gonna go help Ray sharpen some shit.”

Examining him for another few seconds, she eventually shrugs off his mood, slaps his face once more and bounds away.

All that energy and wildness wasted on him.

Once more, Cas decides to try and talk to Dean. Third time’s the charm, right? Besides, his backside is damp from sitting on the waterlogged stump. But as he's walking by Sam, he gets stopped by the Winchester grabbing his wrist.

"Don't." Sam says quietly.

Cas stands there, off-kilter, looking back at Sam for an explanation.

"I don't know what the hell happened last winter and you don’t have to tell me. But maybe it's best to let it go for now."

Cas is dumbstruck. Not only does Sam assume something, but brazenly suggests that he let it go? Does Sam actually expect him to stop trying to fix things with Dean?

Letting go is one thing, and he’s trying. But no matter what feelings he does or does not possess, Dean will always be important to him, and that’s worth trying to fix their friendship.

Ever since they left Chester, nothing has been the same. Cas knew the distance he put between them after that one night would change things. But he never meant for it to get this bad. He never meant to accuse Dean of using him. At least, not quite the way it had come out.

They’ve somehow ended up in a fight with no real context, nothing to grasp onto or make sense of. Dean’s mad, or maybe he actually doesn’t care.

Maybe Sam is the one who’s wrong. Perhaps talking to Dean can fix this. He would have to explain why he’d distanced himself. Explain everything. There’s no telling what would happen, but it has to be better than this.

“But Sam? I think—”

“—Look, Cas, I don’t want to be a jerk, but we’ve been running into a lot of shit lately. Those raiders in Helena we narrowly missed? The wraith, that spirit just east of here. Vampires on the edge of town. I need Dean’s head clear. I feel something bigger coming our way and I can’t have things getting worse than they are. Whatever fight you guys are in, you need to give him space. Let him figure shit out on his own, he’s a big boy.”

“Talking won’t help?” he asks, staring off in the direction Dean went.

“Not with Dean.”

Sam’s grip unlatches from his wrist and Cas glances down at the damp space beside Sam.

"May I sit with you?"

"Of course, Cas. And, I'm sorry about…" Sam shrugs, "…my brother. If you want to talk to me about anything, I’m here. You’re my family too, man."

Castiel’s heart warms with those words but decides he’s not ready to admit his own side of things.

“Thank you, Sam. I feel the same about you.” The younger Winchester nods back.

Castiel realizes they haven’t spoken much in a while. Wanting to be a good friend to at least one Winchester, he decides to bend an ear and see if Sam is willing to open up about the difficult winter he had. Cas knows that Sam lost someone he cared deeply about. “I understand the hypocrisy of me not wanting to talk and asking you to open up, but I know you lost someone Sam, and I’m here to listen if you want.”

Smiling with a sadness, Sam shifts on the fallen tree and rubs his palms against his dirty jeans.

“Thanks. Katie’s the only person I’ve told that wasn’t there.”

Castiel sets all of his attention on Sam Winchester and takes in the story of the young woman he met—Tami. Not long for the group, she made a big impression on Sam and he admits that he was falling for her.

In the middle of Sam relaying the tragedy of her death, his voice warped with pain, a commotion disrupts the camp.

⊢≬⊣

When Dean comes back empty-handed, he expects to hear the sounds of their group.

Chatter, pots clanging as someone makes dinner, an argument between Kyle and Ray. He secretly thinks they're doing it. She smiles at Kyle more than anyone else, which is rare for her. Oh, and Kyle calls her Ray-Ray sometimes and she hasn't murdered him yet. If that ain't proof, he doesn't know what is. He wonders what magic Kyle has over her, what key parts of his personality make her beam at him the way she does. It's funny really, to consider that some people are just made for each other, no matter how different they might be. The happy thought brings on a virulent scowl, and he wonders instead about the lack of noise as he retraces his steps back to camp.

Just when he's beginning to get worried, he's grabbed from behind.

"Got a stray!" Some big motherfucker gripping Dean's torso in an iron-tight bear hug hollers to someone he can’t see.

"Get the fuck off me, jackass!" grunts Dean, wriggling in an attempt to free himself.

"Mmm, yeah ... struggle as much as you want pretty boy, it’s been a long while since I’ve felt a tight ass."

Dean goes still, grating his teeth and tries to ignore the hot feel of the man’s breath against his ear. “Fuck you.”

A taller, jacked dude steps through the trees, his eyebrows raised at the two of them. "Put him with the others, Dal."

Asshole number one moves quick and places a gun against the hollow of his cheek. “Start walking, bitch,” the man growls.

Dean curses under his breath. Fuck, he hopes to god everyone is safe.

Reluctantly, Dean steps forward in the direction he's pushed. He ain't about to go silent though. "Guess it's true what they say about you dickbags nowadays," he begins, catching sight of the guy behind him. A burly bastard.

"Yeah, and what's that?" the man asks idly, kicking Dean on the back of his thigh.

"You're all fat and gay." The dig is kind of hilarious coming from someone who recently wondered how good it would feel if his former best friend gave it to him good and hard.

But, the lewd hick holding a gun to his head doesn't know that.

Dean winces from a blow to the side of his face exerted by the butt of the gun. The thick, metallic taste of blood hits his tongue. He spits the mixture of blood and saliva onto the ground.

Thankfully, they're almost at the camp.

He's so fucking relieved to see that everyone is alive and accounted for. For that reason, being tied to a tree isn't as terrible as it could've been if he were surrounded by the dead bodies of people he cared about.

And Sammy… Dean scans the various clumps of roped-up bodies and finds his brother with Josh, back to back in the dirt. The brothers share a look but when Sam's eyes dance back and forth, Dean knows they're fucked.

At first he can't find Cas, but a woman with dark, short hair steps over to a few raiders conversing on the side, and there's Cas, who looks disgusted, his nose turned up. It reminds Dean of back in the day, when he'd been an angel and was more annoyed than worried when shit went down. It's good to see that trait has remained.

"We're not so bad," the jacked dude, obviously their leader, begins ingenuously. "You have guns and food, and we want those items. So you all just stay here, nice and snug, and we'll do our thing and be gone, sounds perfectly reasonable, doesn’t it?"

"Fuck you." Sam spits, his face red with anger.

"Watch out Sammy," Dean warns with a grin for Mr. Muscles, "he might like that."

The roid-leader stomps towards Sam. Dean flinches hard when Sam catches a real haymaker to the face. The oversized body of his brother slumps to the ground.

Oh, goody, I'm next, thinks Dean. The big dude marches over to Dean, getting all up in his face, "You're Dean Winchester, aren't you?"

"You have a point, Schwarzenegger?"

"Nope. Though I thought you'd be doing better than this. I gotta say, for a hunter, you've hit it pretty low, slumming like this." The guy walks away, shaking his head in mock sympathy, and Dean clamps his mouth shut to keep in every curse word in his repertoire.

With little else they can do, they stand and watch all their shit being packed away. The guns bagged or strapped on bodies, food supplies taken, tents ripped up. This really pisses him off, cause seriously man? You can't settle for stealing, you need to tear apart shit? But, what does it matter in the end? They all know what happens when the theft is complete, and Dean is trying work out things in his head. He's got a knife in his boot, but his legs are strapped to the tree along with his upper body. He literally cannot move.

Meeting Cas' eyes takes some intense staring to get the guy’s attention, but finally the blue focuses on his green. He widens his eyes; a question— _Can you get out?_ Cas shakes his head. Fuckin' hell. He tries his hands again but they’re tied tight and the rope is thick and uncooperative no matter how much he tries to loosen or chafe it on the bark.

The short-haired woman from before walks over to Cas again but Dean can't hear what she's saying. He can sure fucking see it when she gropes his crotch though.

"Get your fucking hands off him," he says slowly, his voice low and level. She spins around, smiling and dances over to him, tipping her head this way and that. It's creepy as fuck. Bitch is obviously sick in the head.

The small brunette prances to a stop a half a foot in front of him. With an impish grin, her eyes flash black. "'Sup, sweetheart?" says the demon, biting the pouty lip of the stolen body.

Unaware of himself, he growls at her and immediately begins an exorcism, grating each bit of Latin through his teeth. The slap he expects, and when his voice stops, Sam continues, having come around without Dean's notice.

She's twisting and screaming, drawing the attention of the other raiders, who've been off stealing all their crap. The one guy has duct tape on his hip and yanks some off to slam over Sam's mouth. Right on top of things, Cas carries on where Sam left off. Dean joins in from across the open area.

They're so damn close, and probably would have chucked the demon gone if not for so many goddamn raiders stomping over and laying some fists on them. Several knuckle beats later and a nice spray of blood on his shirt, he realizes how deep they’re in.

Naturally, it starts raining. How fucking appropriate.

They're gonna die. Dean knows it. It took a while. They've lasted this long, that's gotta count for something.

The shithead leader is yammering about something, killing them quickly, yadda-yadda. Dean drowns him out and dips his head at Sam— _See ya in the afterlife bro_. His brother's real pissed at that. But Dean moves on from kin. It's Cas he needs to see before he dies, the last thing he wants to be looking at before everything goes black.

‘ _And when I die, you'll be on my mind, and I'll love you ... always.’_

Whoa, Jon Bon Jovi? Of all the marching-towards-the-gates songs his brain could have thrown out there, that one's pretty weak. Fitting, maybe … but still. Why not something a little more epic?

While Dean's off thinking of the perfect dirge, he fails to notice the growling in the distance.

Suddenly, there’s a fricking shit-storm of commotion erupting around them, people screaming—some loud, some muffled by duct tape. Fighting breaks out, and unless he's on acid, he thinks it’s werewolves. This could either be really good, or really bad.

Which begs the question, do I want a load of buckshot in the chest, or be eat—

"D _eaaannn_!" Hearing his name drawled with unchecked excitement, Dean looks over at Sam, like, ‘ _What the fuck?’_

Only _one_ guy is that chipper.

Racing in from the side, Garth stops on a dime and slaps his thighs. “I knew I smelled Dean Winchester!”

Okay weirdo. But thank fucking god. Dean wishes there wasn't any damn duct tape over his mouth. He mumbles against it impatiently; _Get your scrawny ass over here!_ Which comes out as: “Mm mmm mmhmm mm mmhmm mmmm _mmmm_!!”

"Well good golly, I finally found the Winchesters! _Heya_! Sorry about crashing the party—" Garth rips the duct tape off.

"Apology accepted! Where the hell've you been, man?!" Dean asks, getting untied. “And, am I going insane or are you a damn werewolf?”

The guy twists his lip to the side and shrinks back a bit. “Long story, man, long story. I’m cool though, I promise you that.”

Dean’s not sure what to say, but there’s too much going on in the background to get into it. “Whatever, I’m just glad you got here when you did!”

Relieved not to be dead, Dean hugs the scrawny guy. Stronger than he looks, Garth crushes Dean, lifting him up off the ground by his waist and giving a little shake.

In the background, the sounds of growling and gnawing are everywhere. "Okay, okay, let me down and start untying everyone else."

Garth's pack, a good thirty strong, are ripping the raiders to shreds and Dean wishes he had more time to watch the show. For a moment, he wonders if he should've told Garth to grill them all first, weeding out the half-decent from the fully-deranged.

As the killing continues, he has a passing thought that maybe they aren't much better than raiders after all. At this point in his life though, he's seen too much of the crap-side of mankind to dwell on this for more than the brief swill the thought takes through his brain.

And shit, werewolves are on their side now? Who’d’ve thought Dean Winchester would be thanking his stars to have monsters in his corner. But again, it’s Garth, gotta give the guy a chance. He did just save their lives and all.

Dean’s on his way to Sam and Cas when he hears a scream he's familiar with. A werewolf is trying to untie Kate, but she's freaking. He detours that way to lend a hand.

"Hard to believe, but they're good guys. Promise," he says to calm her down. With things getting under control, he remembers the short-haired gropey demon.

"Hey Garth!" he yells loud over the noise, not sure where the happy-go-lucky guy went.

"What's up Dean?" Garth hollers back from somewhere over to his left.

"You see a fucking demon anywhere?!" Dean shouts, catching the eyes of most of his group.

" _Ahw_ yeah, devil trapped and wrapped on your right, man! Just through the trees!"

Dean smiles. Oh yes. Payback time, you whore. He'd been paying strict attention when they were being robbed, and finds the demon-knife in a green and purple backpack quickly. Passing by Cas on his way to Demon-Killing Disneyland, he pauses to meet the angel's eyes.

"You good?" he asks succinctly.

There's a male werewolf bent towards Cas' legs, untying the ropes around his shins. He looks hard at Dean, the emotion there indecipherable. "Can I come with you?" Cas asks, stepping free of the loosened rope.

Dean nods, more than pleased to have the man by his side again. Together they walk through the trees, finding the demon trap is a small mat the werewolves must have brought. Simple and effective. The demon is huffing and puffing like a big impotent dragon. Dean tells her exactly that.

She spits on him. "You're just jealous I touched your angel, Winchester."

Oh you did not go there. "Cas?" He says in the sweetest voice he can manage.

The former angel matches his polite tone. "Yes, Dean?"

"Demon knives are wonderful torture devices, aren't they?"

"Yes. Very effective. Would you like a demonstration?" Cas turns to him, smiling cordially. Dean nods, passing off the knife with a flare of ceremony.

"I'm always eager to learn, you know. What a great opportunity!" He practically sings, smiling with sugar in his teeth at the demon whose lip is twitching with rage.

Before Cas starts, he speaks something in Enochian that Dean's never heard. Cas drags the sharp edge down her arm, the skin splitting open to let blood seep towards her fingers. She screams and thrashes but can’t get away.

Dean's focus is drawn to Cas and he can see the vicious hatred on his face. The ex-angel steps back and shakes the dripping blood off the tip.

"It's quite easy," he says, passing the blade to Dean. "Your turn."

"What's the Enochian for?" he wonders, searching Cas’ icy blue eyes.

"A soul is in there. I didn’t want the woman to be hurt," the former angel explains.

Dean shakes his head. "Dammit. _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica... Ergo, draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica... Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos_."

The billow of black smoke funnels out of her mouth and whips around before it plummets into the forest floor.

"You let it go," Cas states with marvel.

"Yeah, Cas. As much as I would’ve loved to piecemeal that bitch, the woman inside doesn't deserve imprisonment any longer than necessary." The woman in question is slumped in Dean's arms. He pulls up her weight in his arms and carries her back with Cas beside him.

"She said something to me," mutters Cas, slowing his steps.

They can hear people talking animatedly through the trees, but Dean stops, turning to face his friend, shifting the weight in his arms. "What’d she say?"

Those thick lips part but Cas seems to reconsider and closes his mouth again. "Nevermind," he says, nearly inaudible, walking off.

Dean stands there for a while until the weight in his arms becomes an inescapable presence. He walks solemnly to the group. Sam runs over to take the girl from Dean's arms. His brother doesn't know that the strain on his face has nothing to do with the slim, pixie-like girl slung across his forearms but whatever it is that the demon said to Cas that rattled him more than the fact that she’d groped him.

Relieved of the woman, Dean is abruptly shoved from behind. Putting up a cruel scowl, he jerks around to face the asshole who’s about to get the most insane beat-down of their life. For fuck's sake, he's so not in the mood for whatever's coming.

"I can protect what's mine." Lexi barks at him.

He's stunned. "What's yours?" he stammers in utter confusion.

"Yeah. _Mine_. Do you have an issue with that, 'cause it seems like you do!"

What the fuck? Dean's going cross-eyed at the woman. The light bulb goes off with a spark and he realizes the fire-cracker blonde is pissed that he went off to avenge Cas' groper. Jealous, much?

He grins tightly, answering through his teeth, "Nope. No issues here.”

None what-so-ever.

She snorts and storms off. Dean wants to fucking hit something. Turning around, he finds Cas is standing a mere three feet away.

"Is something wrong?" the guy asks. The guy whose girlfriend just cross-checked Dean in the back. Real winner there, Cas. Way to pick ‘em.

Dean ignores the question, his eyes narrowing. "You really like her?"

Cas shrugs indifferently. "Why not."

"Goddammit, is this really what you want? I mean c'mon man, you could have anyone." Me, he thinks in a painfully honest moment. You could have me. If you wanted ... I’m right fucking here.

The bitter laugh from Cas brings his eyes up from the ground. "Anyone?" Cas repeats sarcastically. "Do you have any idea what I want? Any idea at all?”

Short answer? No.

Truth is, Dean’s never asked. He’d always been so wrapped up in his thoughts about the whole thing that he never once bothered to find out Cas’ type. Dean’s never even asked if Cas is attracted to guys at all.

When he tried to serve his own twisted brand of an apology via cocksucking, Cas didn’t exactly look interested.

The only memory Dean can dredge up of Cas’ preferences is Meg. And now Lexi. Despite their obvious differences—one being a demon and all, their dominant traits match up. Strong-willed, hard as nails, wild as fuck.

Guess Lexi is the dude’s type after all. Friends should probably know that. Fuck.

Dean isn’t given a chance to say anything else.

"Go fuck yourself." Cas walks away.

Severely and totally disheartened, Dean goes off to find his brother. Sam is occupied tending to the cut on the pixie chick’s arm so he meanders until he ends up hip-to-hip with Josh, both leaning against a tree away from the mess of people and werewolves.

"You look like someone took a massive shit on your rainbow," Josh notes. He hands Dean a mostly full bottle of Tequila and Dean takes it with intense gratitude and reverent thanks.

"Oh, you have no idea," he replies after he's had the first sip.

⊢≬⊣

The werewolves and their group leave together that night. No one wants to sleep around the aftermath of death. They've done what was needed before heading out; piling bodies and setting them aflame.

Moving away from the smoke that snakes through the trees, they only hike a few miles, reaching a new suitable spot to camp for the night. Some stay up to drink and sit by the fire; loud, ruckus chatting amongst them. With a group this large, no one is worried about a thing.

Of course it helps that they've tripled their stock of weapons.

Cas lays on his back in the tent, his mind fixed on Dean. His upper teeth have been gnawing at his bottom lip, wondering why the hell Dean is so goddamn dense.

Does he not see it?

Dean Winchester, one of the best hunters the world has ever seen—smart as tacks—blind to the most dominant emotions of someone close to him.

When Dean had so brazenly asked what he wanted, saying he could have anyone, Cas realized how insignificant he must be. Because if his ‘friend’ had ever spent any ounce of effort or time trying to figure out what he wants, he would have known not to ask the fucking question.

The sound of the tent-zipper stirs him, one of the few without rips. Lexi bends to slink in through the gap she's opened up.

"God, I'm horny!" she announces, chucking her shirt and sweater over her head. She's braless and her breasts bounce gently when she moves.

It tires him. He can't muster even a falsity of interest. Not after today. First the demon rubbing her small hand over his sex, saying that she'll give him what Dean never will. How Cas has it all wrong, because what he thinks happened in the winter, never did. That it was actually _his_ dream all along. Like every other demon he’s ever met, she was nothing more than a liar.

Castiel remembers far too much detail for it to be fake. And of course, there's the cassette tape in his bag if he ever has serious doubts.

"I'm not in the mood," he says apathetically.

Lexi is already down to her underwear. She makes a face and slaps his chest playfully. "Holy crap, Cas, you could've told me before I got naked!"

It's probably bad to say he hadn’t been paying attention. "I'm sorry."

She tips her head with frustration, redressing her top half only. "What's the deal?"

He sighs. "The deal is ... humans are stupid."

She laughs and drops down onto the sleeping bag beside him. "Sometimes I actually forget you used to be an honest-to-God angel. Crazy shit, yo."

The spunky blonde shifts again, propping her head up with her hand and staring at him from the side. "Angel, angel, tell me your sins," she intones, her overcast bluish-grey eyes sparkling.

It takes him a moment to decide if he's going to speak his mind. Before now, they've been mostly a physical comfort for the other. Easy companionship with low expectations. Somewhere along the last few months, they developed a friendship.

"Have you ever wanted something that you'll never have?"

She snorts loud. "Are you fucking serious?" she blasts sarcastically. "Who fucking hasn't?!" With that, she spins off on a tale about this one time in Belize when she tried to wrangle a Maya Coral snake into a box. Not long after they first got together, he found out she used to be a snake wrangler. Dean would get a kick out of that. But of course, he doesn't know because they barely say anything to each other.

"…and this fucker was like seven feet easy, you know, twisting and wriggling, and I got my hands on it and taped that mouth shut. Meanwhile, you know, there's like eight-fucking-hundred fish in my chest-waders!"

Cas squints, turning to face her. "You're very strange."

"So are you." She kisses his cheek in a kind peck. “Sorry you got felt-up by some Hell bitch. I totally could’ve taken her. Fuckin’ Dean had to go off like it was his damn mission to protect you.”

“It’s fine,” he assures her. “I’m fine.”

Laying out his arm, she moves into the open space. Hoping for some rest, he’s aggravated when she starts to rub his chest. Though he enjoys the warmth and sensation, he’s tense, wondering if she plans to drag things out into sex. Fact is, he can’t deliver.

Aren’t there pills for that? he wonders aimlessly.

The touch of her fingers across his chest is contemplative, if a touch can be that, and then, very softly, she says, "Damn. You fucking love him too, don’t you?"

Cas bolts up into a sitting position and stares down at her. “What?”


	24. Chapter 24

With the excitement over, the status quo resumes. Much to Dean’s disappointment.

Rain. Dirt. Tension. Teetering emotions that he works hard to ignore.

They're further north-west a week later and Dean can barely stand the monotony of it.

Garth and his pack had hung around for a bit, but they’re doing the world a solid and getting rid of evil better than he and Sam can. They’ve got a group of people to watch out for now and there’s not really any other choice.

Saying goodbye to Garth was sadder than he expected it be. They made plans, though. Sam had made sure to tell the guy where they were heading and where they were likely to go next. Dean’s pretty confident he’ll see the quirky dude again.

It’s a few mornings after the werewolves took off, and Dean’s a good distance from their current camp, squatted for some morning business. Taking the time alone, he dwells on the last week. He also thinks that he's too fucking old to be shitting in the woods with broad leaves for toilet paper, and _really_ hopes Sam has plans to get them the hell out of here soon.

Damn, he'd do anything for a bed.

Or, more pointedly, a toilet.

He walks his bow-leggedness back to camp and slaps Sam on the back while he’s in the middle of chatting with Ray and Kyle—hand-in-hand. Yup. Called that shit, he thinks arrogantly.

"We moving out today?" he asks Josh. The dark blond hunter is cleaning up some partridge.

Josh nods quietly, his hands slimy with the task. Dean has seen his share of ick, but animals getting all pulled apart is always super gross. Swallowing that feeling, he grabs the next one and helps out.

After a while, Dean can see a smile start to spread across Josh's face. "How's that rainbow of yours?" he asks.

Dean puts down the bird and glares flat at the guy.

Josh grins, a low chuckle coming out of that beardy face. "I'm a quiet man, Dean, but I'm not blind and you know it."

Dean throws his head back, sighing and rolling his eyes. "Are you trying to get a black eye here?"

"Man, relax. It's my roundabout way of asking if you're okay. Sam tells me you won't talk to him about things and I thought I’d take a stab at it.”

Dean resumes the task of cleaning up the dead bird. He shrugs. "I don't talk to Sam because there's nothing to say. I don't know what rumours have been going around our little camp here, but you talk about my "rainbow" one more time and I'm gonna shove this bird up your nose."

Josh barks a laugh, knowing Dean isn't all that serious. "Alright, fair enough. I’ll leave it be. By the way, Miss Kate was looking for you, I told her you were droppin' a deuce."

Dean shakes his head. "Christ, Josh, were you raised in a barn?" He pulls the last of the feathers off Bird One and moves on to Bird Two. Josh got six that morning alone. Probably before anyone else was awake. It makes him think of Bobby.

"You know, I knew this guy, was like a father to me. You and him would've gotten along great. He was a hunter, a _real_ hunter. Not like Sam and I. Well, that too, actually, but you know what I mean."

"Yeah," Josh says, "What happened to him? All this shit?"

"You remember a guy named Dick Roman?" asks Dean.

Josh bobs his head, wiping the sweat off his brow with his forearm.

"He was shot by that guy. Who wasn't actually a guy but a Leviathan—I think Sam's told you about them. Then Bobby—that's his name—turned into a ghost for a while."

Josh pauses, turning to face Dean. "You had a fucking bizarre life, man."

Dean nods agreeably, "Yes, yes I did."

When the partridge are cleaned and ready for dinner later that night, Dean treks off in search of Kate, making sure to wash his hands first in a puddle with some soap. He finds her sitting with Sandra, the middle-aged woman he’d gone on a couple runs with in the past. Sandra is more chatty with the ladies than with him or any of the other guys. She has spiky, middle-aged woman hair. Part of him is certain she was a total soccer-mom before the infection.

"You were lookin for me?" he says to Kate.

"Yeah!" She jumps up, says goodbye to Sandra and follows Dean off away from camp a yard or so.

Her arm links behind his elbow, hooking him to her. "You're chipper," he remarks.

She jumps in front of him, grabs his hands and smiles. "I have something to ask you."

"Shoot."

"Umm ... would it bother you if, maybe, I might, a little, want to start something with your brother?" She's scrunching her face at him and it's friggin' cute. Man, he really shouldn’t have slept with her back in Helena. She'd caught him in a bad moment.

"Ahh ... no. Guess not. Maybe don't tell him you slept with me, though. Kinda gross." Then again, she wouldn't be the first girl they've both slept with. Ugh, talk about hand-me-downs.

She smiles sweetly and throws her arms around his neck. Reaching up, she speaks low in his ear, "It's just, Sam and I have been talking a lot lately, and he's so kind and sweet, and I really like him. I know you and I were just a one-off but I thought I'd ask you anyway."

"No worries. Go for Sam. He's a great guy." He rubs her back.

She kisses his cheek and tilts her head. "By the way, you _really_ know how to use that tongue of yours."

And then she's off, traipsing in a winding pattern through the clumps of thick trees and undergrowth, twigs snapping underfoot, brown hair a mess behind her. It's not so much curls today as a nest of knots. Good god, her and Sammy are gonna get stuck together. He can just see it— "Dean! My hair!" Which would be both of them screaming to be released from the clutches of an Alberto V05 nightmare.

He's momentarily banging his head on the tree when Cas sneaks up on him.

"What are you doing?"

Dean jumps violently, sucking his lungs back into his throat. "Oh my god, you're not an angel man, you gotta stop doing that!"

"You were hitting the tree ... with your head." Cas repeats.

"Yeah, it’s called therapy."

Cas smiles, widening his eyes. "I'm sorry about before. About ... everything. I shouldn't have snapped at you, Dean. I’m not proud of the way I’ve acted.”

Dean nods once and steadies himself from the inside out. “No harm, no foul. Tensions were still high after the raiders. Forget about it.”

Cas turns away and seems to ponder for a few seconds. When he eventually meets Dean’s watchful gaze, curiosity seems to overcome his expression. “Lexi and I are over.”

Holy left field, batman. Right when he’s starting to come to terms with it. Well not really but it’s nice to pretend he was emotionally stable before this.

“That ... uh ... _sucks_?” Dean frames it as a question, shrugging his shoulders. What the hell is Cas expecting him to say? Is the guy looking for advice? Good god he hopes not.

“It was my decision. Thought you should know,” Cas elaborates, waiting on Dean to say something. When he doesn’t, Cas continues awkwardly. “Even though things haven’t been great between us, you’re important to me. You’re ... my friend. And I need you.”

Cas’ blue eyes pin him on the spot and Dean has the bizarre notion that he’s missing something.

Whatever emotion is blocking Dean’s vocabulary gets swallowed down with a horde of saliva. “Right, yeah. Back at ya’. Thanks for spreading the news or whatever.”

Fuck, who needs exercise. Emotional tension is all the workout his muscles need.

“Dean, are we ... are we okay?” Cas shifts from one foot to the other and stares right through him.

A sad exhale pours out of him. “Yeah, Cas. We’re fine.” Whatever the fuck ‘fine’ means nowadays. “And while we’re clearing the air and shit, I’m sorry about the whole, uh, well—you know.”

“Offering a blow job?”

“Yeah, that. I was having a bad day.”

“You’ve been having a lot of those,” Cas observes.

No kidding. “Don’t worry about it.” Thinking back on what Josh said, he looks over at Cas and repeats the guy’s words, “I’ll survive.”

A long pause in the conversation turns the dial over to weird and Dean thinks that maybe this is enough for now.

Before Cas can bug him about what’s wrong if they’re okay, Dean blurts, "We're heading out soon, I think. Should probably pack up."

"Yeah, I know. I spoke to Josh on the way out here. I'll, uh, talk to you later, I guess." Cas frowns and walks away.

When he's gone, Dean wipes the sweat from the back of his neck. Where did his cool-calm-collected attitude run off to? If only they could just go back to before the winter, when they had a normal friendship and Dean wasn't flayed apart by every little thing Cas did.

Christ, even back in the day when the attraction began, it had never been this bad.

But then, Cas was always a fleeting thing in the old days. Coming and going as he pleased. Dean's attempts to keep him around never seemed to hold any sway. Even when the apocalypse was well underway, even when there was room at the bunker and they would have worked better together, the angel avoided him.

Same as he’d done over the winter. Come to think of it, Cas brushing him off at the farmhouse had started right after that damn flu. Right about the time Dean had let his dreams run wild again.

Dean’s thoughts start to spin, building and growing like an avalanche.

Maybe, Dean thinks with sudden horror, _maybe_ Cas knows how he feels? Maybe that’s why he keeps putting distance between them. Maybe that’s why Cas was never willing to stick around before.

Fuck.

A lot of things still don’t make sense. Like why the hell did Cas feel the need to come all the way out here to tell him that he’s single.

Looking at the overcast sky, Dean says, “Dear God, you useless sack of shit. Could you not have made Cas blunt in ways that actually fucking matter?”

⊢≬⊣

Pegging Lexi with an angry eye, he grates out, "You lied."

She feigns offence, a hand slapping against her own chest, "I never lie!"

"You said he has feelings for me," he whispers sternly, urging her to keep her voice down.

They’re both sitting near the fire. On the far side of the open part of camp, Sam keeps shooting them ever more curious looks. Constant checks confirm that Dean hasn’t yet come back. But he’ll have to soon, they’re only staying long enough that everyone has a few bites of partridge.

"No, I said he fucking loves you!" she fires back. Cas slaps a hand over her shapely—yet vulgar—mouth. He can feel Sam outright staring now, pretending to organize the ammo.

"You’re very loud," he bites off. True to her personality, she winks. When he withdraws his palm, she leans in close. To most, it probably gives the impression they’re still together.

But he’d ended that a few nights ago. To his surprise, Lexi was relatively upset. A long talk ensued and by the end of it, Castiel was hopeful. Happy, also, that he’d found such a good friend and confidant in her, wishing that he hadn’t hurt her in the process.

"As I was saying," she continues quietly, "he does. Trust me, Cas. I don't know much more than snakes, general reptilian families, and making fires like no one's business, but I can sure as fuck tell the two of you are like mad in love. He wants that awesome cock of yours right in his ass!”

Flinching from the unfortunate rise of her voice on the word _ass_ , Cas takes a quick check around them and sees several people looking their way.

“Lexi, if I were still an angel I would modify your vocal chords."

She laughs and ruffles his hair. "Shut your mouth hot stuff, you love me just as I am and you know it. I'm the bold and crazy that is _clearly_ your type. Only difference being that I have breasts and a vag!" She grins wickedly.

“Look,” she says sternly, “you can’t see the truth because you feel vulnerable. Totally normally, man. But listen, when things work out—and they will, I promise—you tell him that if he hurts you, he’s answering to me.”

“Why do you care about me so much? I wasn’t very good to you.”

Lexi leans into his space and plants a kind peck to his check. “Beats me, hot stuff. I just love ya and that’s the way it is.”

Both guilt and warmth move through him at her confession. Wrapping his arms around her, he squeezes her tight and whispers, “You are an incredible woman, Lexi.”

Easing free of his hold, she smiles up and winks. “I know.”

It hurts to see a hint of pain flash through her eyes. Castiel never imagined she truly cared for him as much as she seems to. Avoiding Dean wasn’t supposed to hurt anyone else but himself.

Smiling in a false way, Lexi punches him and pops up off the log and dashes off the way she often does—rarely moving from one point to another at normal speed.

Cas massages the back of his neck and shifts to see if Sam is still eyeing him. Yes, he is. Looking very confused about things.

Guess that makes two of them.

For once, he understands Dean’s aversion to drama and the discussions of feelings. It’s all he and Lexi have done the last couple days and it’s wearing him out.

He throws a plain smile in Sam's direction, ignoring the younger Winchester’s openly nosy stare, and moves off to get his stuff together.

 

**  
**


	25. Chapter 25

Postcard perfection.

Appearing like a haven just beyond the bend of a causeway is the picturesque Country Inn Motel. A formerly well-kept, two-storey pit stop for weary travelers, framed around the back and sides with tall, deep green cedars.

And it’ll be the stop they take tonight before moving on to Washington State.

Endless questions have plagued him since they left their camp in the woods and Dean knows he’s missing a major piece of the puzzle but he’s too damn nervous and scared to rattle the box.

On the long walk here, he’s been picking up the journal, pouring his frustrations into it. As much as he detests the idea of the thing becoming a friggin’ diary, the fear doesn't calm the scribble one bit. It’s satisfying to unleash his inner turmoil into a smearing of inky blue.

In doing so, he’s realized that—much like the damn doll in his bag—the journal must be kept hidden too.

When the sun was still high in the day, peaking through passing clouds, Dean made a choice to walk beside Cas. After their last talk, he’d been doing an excellent impression of an overdramatic teenage girl. Thoughts never-ending, writing in diaries…

What’s the world coming to? For fear that he might grow breasts at any moment, he figures it can’t hurt anything to try and talk.

God. _Talk._ Just the thought of the word makes his stomach turn.

Matching stride with the former angel, Dean started off nice and easy. “How’s it goin?”

“There’s a hole in my shoe, but otherwise fine. You?”

“Great.”

“Good.”

Shoot me in the leg, he thought.

Damn, he was so relieved the moment Cas asked about Garth and the werewolves, wanting the backstory. Dean only too happy to oblige. Better keep the heavy-duty discussions on the backburner.

Baby steps, Winchester, baby steps.

The longer the chat went on, the more Dean clung to safe topics like a fucking security blanket. Every time he was tempted to ask about what really went wrong with them, fear clamoured up his throat and nearly choked the life out him.

Not ready for the answers by a long shot, the questions never saw the light of day. And he doesn’t expect they will.

So by the time the motel came into view after a wide bend, everyone bumbled towards it like moths to a flame for a nights' rest.

And as Dean walks across the broken asphalt to the green doors, he realizes he's tired of trying to fix things, to figure things out. Exhausted with the overwhelming mission of repairing whatever the hell remains between them. Everything’s awkward and messy. And Dean’s never been good at figuring out that kind of shit.

The easy discourse and past comfort has been shot to hell. And he's made zero headway on what might be going on inside that head of his. Dean doesn’t even know what he expected to get out of this, or what he really wanted. Though one thing is painfully clear, this isn’t about a damn fantasy or a hedonistic dream.

Not anymore. And that terrifies him.

Out of energy and will, beaten down by his own fucking emotions, Dean decides to give up. To wipe every nagging question from his mind, to shove down that incessant craving, the destructive need, and move the fuck on.

Leaving everyone behind, Dean goes to find a room for himself on the first floor, needing a few moments to dwell in the grief of his decision.

Man, when the heck had everything gotten so high school? It’s a damn zombie apocalypse, he tries to tell himself. Dean tries to force a laugh, but what comes out is something horribly close to a sob and he clamps down on that shit real fast.

“Fucking Christ, get it together.”

Sitting at the top of the bed, he pulls the journal out to write whatever comes to mind. Turning the page for a new entry, he's confronted with scribble that's already there in the middle of the book.

On the right side, written in what he’s sure is his writing is one word: _Dream?_ A long, messy scrawl that he can't remember writing or why.

His mind drags back to the winter, to the bad flu he'd gotten, hot flashes of fever and delirious, debauched dreams. One such dream had seemed worse than the rest, because it had felt so much better, which made not an ounce of sense seeing as it had been pretty tame in comparison to other things he'd imagined.

_No rules in dreams..._

God, how coherent in his rambling had he been when he was sick? It seems more and more that what broke their friendship was none other than Dean himself. Who knows what depraved things he said to Cas. No wonder the ex-angel put distance between them.

It's a good fucking thing he's decided to let the whole thing slide. Probably should've done that long ago. And yeah, his heart aches like a son of a bitch, and it radiates to his shoulders, but the thing is—the hurt isn’t a new thing.

It’s been there for a long time. Ignoring it’s always worked for him the past. Guess things are business as usual.  

The evening is calm when Dean eventually emerges. Glancing down the walkway in front of the motel, he sees everyone huddled around a picnic table, their voices rising and swaying with constant chatter. It’s a pleasant hum as he walks towards them, each step another lock secured on his deepest wish.

It’s time to form healthier attachments. And that’s just what he does.

Sandra, Dean has recently discovered used to be a legal clerk. But that’s not what he likes best about her. She also happens to dole out some wicked massages.

On the bottom part of a picnic table, her above him, he's on the receiving end of a very relaxing shoulder rub. Sam's telling them all hunting stories while Dean hangs his head, grinning, and suffering the occasional slap from Sandra during the telling of said tales.

Coming to terms with his loss, he mentally pulls the members of their group around him, letting their company dull the pain that he won’t admit he’s in. Standing separate from everyone is Cas, leaning on the post at the edge of the walkway.

Kate is snuggled up under Sam's arm and it's good to see. Dean smiles at them, and even though the expression lays only on the surface, he’s trying.

It isn’t long before all his efforts at mental stability coming crashing down.

Forty minutes he’d bet.

A delighted shriek draws everyone's attention to Lexi, who's skipping from the front office carrying a white and black Sony stereo.

"Look what Patrick found!" she hollers. The chubby guy in question jogs uncomfortably behind her.

Dean goes still. Something about the stereo makes his heart race towards an arrhythmia.

"Hey Cas,” Lexi calls over. “I hope you don't mind that I grabbed that tape you had in your bag!"

Everything that follows is in slow motion. Lexi pops out the tape deck, plunks the black cassette tape in and hits play. An erotic dream comes rushing back the moment Mandy Moore hits the airways.

Unaware of moving his head, Dean’s suddenly fuming in Cas’ direction. Sheer guilt has taken over Cas’ expression, his blue eyes pulling away from Dean’s heated stare.

Dean bolts up from the picnic table and storms past. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he whispers in a rough set of words on the way to his room.

In the solace of his room, he's freaking the fuck out. Trying to control his breathing is next to impossible, and the images assaulting him are vivid.

Ha. Probably cause they’re real, dumbass.

Fuck, why didn’t Cas ever tell him?

Is it because Dean was tripping out on booze and cold medicine? Was Cas just taking advantage of an opportunity? Either way, it happened. Every torturous moment of it.

Goddamn, all this time he’s been going on the assumption that his attraction was a one-way street. But his memory tells a different story.

Every hazy minute rips through his mind and the best part is the way Cas shuddered up into his palm, face broken into pleasure, staring up at him.

Jesus Christ. Dean can’t stop the images, the dim sensations. God, all doped up on Nyquil or some shit and forty-proof, still sick as a dog. And horny, _fuck_ , he'd been so horny.

It’s a hedonistic slideshow assault of epic proportions.

Cas’ blue eyes gazing up, dark with desire. A friend he'd die for thrusting into his hand, moaning and loving it. Clearly wanting it.

Maybe he still wants it? But why the hell did Cas lie? Why didn’t he say anything?!

Fuck so much for shoving aside nagging questions. There’s no way he’s making it through this one sober.

Dean paces from one end of the room to the other and detours towards his bag, digging out the Tequila he'd taken from Josh. He uncaps the top as fast as humanly possible and starts chugging.

It burns. Dean coughs, eyes watering, but goes right back to the rim and forces more liquor into his system.

After all these years, he's lived out a massively secret fantasy, and didn't even know it happened. Fuck. Bottom's up; more liquid down the hatch. The burn’s less now that he's used to it.

Ah, drinking like the good old days.

Thinking on all those nights, back in the day, when he'd felt beat down by Heaven and Hell, demons and angels, getting insane amounts of wasted and then jerking himself dry in a drunken haze picturing Cas on his knees, wings out, mouth open and waiting for Dean's come to land on his tongue. Yeah, so screw him, he's a dirty drunk.

But damn, no wonder he'd thought what had happened was a dream! How could he have possibly believed it might be real? When had Cas _ever_ indicated he might share similar desires? Where were the clues? Did angels fantasize? Well, maybe angels don’t, but there was that one time he caught Cas in the middle of a dirty dream just last year. Had it been about him? It’s arrogant to think it might have, but he hopes.

And then there was that whole wet-dream incident. Cas never left. He could’ve ... could’ve stormed out and told Dean how gross he was. He didn’t.

Dean drinks more, thinking. Pacing. Drinking. And repeat.

Purpose strikes him like a whip three-quarters of the bottle later. Leaving his room, he finds that everyone has gone to bed. Guess more time has gone by than he thought. Oh well. The bottle with hardly a mouthful left dangles from his grip as he marches down the four doors to Cas' room.

Not bothering to knock, as liars are not afforded that luxury, Dean throws the door open.

By the soft glow of the moon, he can mostly make out Cas on the bed, on his back, eyes closed. Dean snorts, what a faker. The noise he makes as he shoves a chair under the doorknob rouses Cas enough to open his eyes. When he sees who’s stumbled into his room, he goes rigid and stares cautiously at the space between them.

“Dean, I can smell the alcohol on you." Cas isn’t happy about that. But Dean never would’ve made it to his room sober.

Dean swings the bottle in question around in the air. "Stole it from Josh," he says. Attention set on Cas, Dean accidentally lets the bottle slip out of his fist and it flies over to the dresser and crashes against the corner, raining thick glass all over the carpet.

"Oops." Dean giggles. “My bad.”

In a smooth gait, he walks to the edge of the bed, grinning with drunken swagger. "So!" he announces, clapping his hands together with an acidic smile. "Not a dream then, huh?"

This man, his best friend, his guardian angel resorts to fidgeting, fingers playing with the end of his sweater. Cas shakes his head. "No ... it wasn't."

“Any reason you decided I didn’t need to know we fucked around?”

Cas shrugs, cautious. “Why are you here, Dean?”

There isn't a conscious decision about it. Not really. Dean just kinda starts chucking his clothes for no higher goal than he wants them gone. Cas sits up and examines him, eyes following his jerky movements. There’s something that should be said, some explanation or frank discussion, but Dean can’t get past wanting to be naked. Figures that’s about as good of an answer as any.

And that’s why you don’t drink Tequila, boys and girls.

Toeing his boots off, he almost falls over. “Stupid wobbly floors.”

It’s much easier to just kick his leg in the air and let the force fling his boot off. One hits the door and the other almost breaks the window.

“Dean…” Cas warns him, eyes darting around the room.

“ _Sshh_! I’m busy.” Dean unbuttons his jeans and shoves them down his legs. Next, the boxers follow.

Standing naked at the end of the bed, he waits, running his eyes all over his friend. When he makes his way back to Cas’ face, he’s too drunk to comprehend the expression. Cas seems to be flickering between indecision and anger.

Abruptly, Cas swears and tugs his sweater over his head in one quick move. The worn jeans are next, but at the top band of his boxers, Cas pauses, squinting his eyes in a moment’s deliberation.

Remembering the dream, Dean reaches between his legs to touch himself, a light stroke from tip to base. As he’d hoped, Cas' breath slides out between his lips and he's suddenly tearing his boxers down his legs in a scramble.

Dean stumbles onto the bed, shoves Cas’ legs apart and lowers his head. Meeting Cas’ guarded stare, he flicks his tongue out and glides it up the entire underside of his half-hard cock. Parting his lips around the head, he sinks over it, taking the full length into his liquor-warmed mouth.

The moan that rips out of Cas’ throat is unchecked and incredible.

It’s been ten years or so since Dean’s had the heady, salty taste of cock on his tongue. But man, it's good. The sensation of Cas expanding thick in his mouth makes him whimper and reach down to touch himself.

"Dean, _uhhnn_ ... your— _fuck_ —your mouth."

Misconstruing his friend's ramble, Dean growls approval, popping off to say, “Shit yeah, fuck my mouth.”

Dean guides Cas’ hands to cradle his head, positions himself and waits for it. Cas starts slow and careful, barely giving Dean more than the tip but as he wantonly begs for more, his best friend gradually gives in. It’s not long before Cas’ thick sex is ramming in over his tongue, plunging back towards his throat. Dean’s glad for the booze in his system because it manages to kill his gag reflex, only choking when Cas cuts off his air supply by holding him tight to his groin for longer than he can handle.

Messy sucking and fevered groaning dominates the room, and Dean’s nearly lost to the taste of Cas’ firm cock and his own hand stroking up and down his erection.

Out of nowhere, Cas pulls the brakes. "Dean, Dean ... stop. Wait. Not, not like this."

Cas' hands disappear and Dean reflexively pulls off, drool and precome dribbling down his chin. Eyes scouring over Cas’ flickering abs, his heaving chest, Dean finally looks Cas in the eye.

“Like how then?” he asks, fire and want deepening his voice.

“I want all of you.”

A low growl rises from his throat, wanting to give Cas every last inch of him. Thrilled more than he was for his first time, he grabs hold of the backside of Cas' knees and folds him in on himself. Pressing those muscular thighs tight to his rising chest. It makes for the most sinful fucktastic image he's ever seen.

Overexcited, Dean turns to the side and nips at Cas’ calf, his eyes rolling back on a moan.

"Oh my god," he breathes against the skin, his eyes grazing over every bared stretch of skin of his former angel. Dean hasn’t been this hungry for something in a long, long time.

"Is this really happening?" asks Cas, biting his lip, his flushed face trapped against the pillow. Dean leans between the legs he's got in his grip and brings them face-to-face.

“Man, I fuckin’ hope so.”

Holding back on some kind of climactic kiss, Dean loses himself to the affection in Cas’ blue eyes, indulging himself on being able to do exactly that without people telling him he’s cracked his head.

Cas utters his name like a plea, the wait gone on too long.

Locking in the stare, Dean slips out his tongue and teases Cas’ upper lip. With a groan, those pink lips part and Dean dives in; lips crashing, breaths stolen from each other, wet heat melting them.

Impassioned by the kiss, Dean starts to roll his hips in a search for more. The tip of his cock, dripping with slickness presses into the cleft of Cas' ass and they both flinch on the bed. He does it again and almost screams with how bad he wants to be inside Cas.

Moaning into the raunchy depth of the kiss, Dean’s reluctant to pull away from that soft, beautiful mouth. But he does, needing to bury himself deep.

Using spit, and a lot of it, he lubes his cock, trying not to let the feel of his hand get him too close. Meeting Cas' wild stare, blown-out and full of heat, he positions himself, his fingers biting into the backs of Cas' thighs.

There's no verbal cue, but he doesn't need one, not now. Not after everything. The long winter, the battles they’ve been through, the friendship, all of that flickers before his eyes the second he starts to push the head of his cock against Cas’ ass, trying to nudge his way in. It’s all he can think about. Dean realizes in a flash that there’s too much resistance.

Cas is too damn tight. Which is awesome, but kind of an impediment.

Dean lets out an impatient growl and sucks his fingers one at a time and gets his hand down with the party. Meeting Cas’ eyes, Dean slips in a single digit nice and slow. Working in to the last knuckle, he vents a harsh curse at the sight of Cas’ surprised mouth hanging loose and open.

“You lied to me,” Dean accuses, curling his finger up and stroking the front wall. A rough flinch rocks Cas’ whole body.

“S-sorry,” his friend whispers.

Dean can hardly see straight but he pulls back and works two fingers in together. “Why, Cas?” Twisting at the wrist, Dean drags a moan from him.

“I don’t know, I ... I thought ... I didn’t know what I, _ahh,_ was t-to you.” For a fleeting moment, Cas seems nervous, like he’s bracing himself to be stomped on.

They’re both idiots. Absolute dumbasses.

Spreading his fingers, twisting in and out, Dean compels Cas to meet his eyes. “Goddammit Cas! _Everything_. Don’t you get it? You’re fucking everything to me.”

Dean attacks him with a kiss. “Everything,” he says again. Brushing Cas’ lips once more, he pulls back and looks down to watch his fingers stretch Cas open, sinking into a very intimate part of his body.

Cas squeezes his eyes shut and reaches out blindly to grab at the bed. His fists grab handfuls of the blanket and Dean catches a shimmer at the wrinkled corners of his eyes.

Well. _Fuck_. Now Dean wishes he weren’t shitfaced.

“Dammit.” Needing to soothe him, Dean caresses his knee and loves the dim smile that breaks across Cas’ face. “It’s okay, babe. It’s okay, I promise. You gonna let me in?” Dean strokes in a tease with his fingers and breathes a sigh of relief when Cas manages to nod like his head’s on a broken hinge.

Dean can’t help but leave his fingers in as he gets into position. Using his other hand, he does the whole spit and slather routine again. Shifting his hips and knees on the bed, he presses his cock right up in under his hand, easing his fingers out as he pushes in.

Even with his handiwork, Cas reflexively twists away when he’s only in to the tip. “Open your eyes, Cas. Fuck, you gotta relax a little. Look at me…”

Uneven breaths tear in and out of Cas’ mouth and he manages, blearily, to hold his eyes open.

“There you are,” says Dean, smiling down at him. “We’re okay, everything’s okay.” Dean tries to calm him by massaging his hips and ass. Whatever unraveled emotions and impassioned ecstasy that’s taken hold of Cas has left him tense and muddled.

“I know I’m drunk,” Dean slurs a bit, hating the excuse that it’s taken so goddamn long and so much booze to get them here. “I’m sorry. Fuck, d’you want me to stop?”

Cas shakes his head back and forth on the pillow, a tear rides down his temple to his hairline. “No, no ... no.” The echo of no’s leave Cas’ mouth through sporadic hitches.

“Take a breath, babe, c’mon.” Dean leans over and places one hand against the side of his face, rubbing his thumb over Cas’ cheek.

A ragged, unsteady inhale is sucked back and as Cas gets ready to let it all back out, he finally meets Dean’s eyes with some frame of clarity. Seeing Cas this way, strung out and overloaded in the moment makes him realize just how stupid he’d been for not seeing it all. There was no denying that Cas loves him. Has loved him…

“Real intense moment here for us, I know,” Dean gets the words out, his voice wrecked. “But Cas, relax just a little for me.”

Cas licks across his lips and all at once, every stiff muscle seems to soften, his legs fall back even more and his death grip on Dean’s cock lets up a fraction.

Not sure how long he’s got, Dean finally sinks in all the way. He’s slow but doesn’t stop. Cas trembles from head to toe and Dean doesn’t know if it hurts or he’s overrun with emotion. As it is, Dean’s head is swimming with Tequila and all sorts of revelations. This was a terrible idea. A great idea, too. A long overdue moment, no argument. But he should’ve waited. He should’ve made it special somehow.

“I should stop. _Fuck_. I should’ve stopped,” Dean rambles.

Castiel abandons his hold on the blankets and grabs Dean by the face. “Please don’t. I’m a mess, Dean, I know, I’m sorry, but please don’t leave me like this.”

“I wouldn’t go anywhere,” he promises, ready to back out.

“Fuck. Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare stop now.”

The chaos of emotion that’s been storming inside Cas’ expression has leveled out and now his stare blazes at Dean, all fire and perseverance. It’s the same Cas that he first remembers seeing and all the years between them collapse between then and now.

Still, Dean can’t continue without barefaced enthusiasm, worried that his liquored up state of mind is deluding reality.

“Cas, man, I’m fucking three sheets to the wind right now—give me a hell yes if you want me to keep going.”

“Hell fucking yes!” Cas shouts and throws his arms back to grab the headboard.

With that exulted consent, Dean pulls back with a wide smile and lets go. An impatient crash of their hips, his cock being squeezed like a fucking Thigh-Master.

“Holy shit, Cas, you’re gonna break me. Ease up, babe.” Dean’s fingers clutch at Cas’ skin, trying damn hard to keep himself from unleashing his booze-fueled, latent hunger.

A soft moan leaves Cas’ throat and he says, “Sorry, _mmm_ , can’t help it.”

Cas bites into his bottom lip, hard enough to dent the plump ruddy skin. Wanting to lick it smooth, Dean pushes down, folding Cas up more and tastes across the swollen skin, feeling it tremble against his tongue. Delving into a wet, inviting mouth, he can taste it all. Everything from the sleepy warmth to the faint tinge of mint.

Withdrawing his hips, his exhale turning into a groan, Dean waits a beat and then pushes back in, his cock surrounded by tight, soft heat. Being together this way sends a shudder through him, his erection throbbing as it grows impossibly thicker.

As his cock flexes, stretching Cas a little more, he catches the jolt and subtle hiss from under him.

“Slower, Dean.”

"Sorry, sorry…" he rambles, dishing out delicate kisses wherever he can reach. Mouth, cheek, an eyelid. Any part of Cas’ face is a perfect landing spot for his lips.

Gently shifting his hips, Dean barely moves, grinding his teeth in an effort to hold it all back. He rocks into his best friend, swaying his hips instead of pumping in and out. Taking the opportunity to watch that gorgeous face instead. Seeing the amazement on it, cataloguing every rough noise that he makes, every whimper, every coarse whisper of Dean's name.

It takes a bit, but Cas finally relaxes—his body going pliant and receptive. As Dean’s hard sex works into him, rumbling moans build from Cas’ throat. There’s no discomfort about his noises now, just barefaced need. A glorious desperation that’s claimed the moment.

Dean’s never witnessed anything better.

Being close enough to catch every reaction flicker into Cas’ expression is one hell of a turn on, but Dean wants the whole picture. Every fucking bit of it. So he lifts up, grabbing Cas' ankles as he moves.

“Dean, oh fuck,” Cas throws his head back, his eyes closing as his body adjusts to the new position. “Mmm, I can’t-I can’t… I need…”

Understanding, Dean rubs across Cas’ erratically heaving chest. “I know, babe. I get it. I got ya.”

Unable to hold back now that Cas is losing control, Dean moves his hips like they’re on a loose hinge, swinging free and hard. With each forward push, a rush tingles up his shaft from the slick heat that squeezes around him.

“Dean,” Cas cries out, his expression wild and a bit lost.

Doing whatever he can to keep him grounded, Dean slows his pace for a few seconds and makes sure that Cas finds his eyes. “It’s okay to let go … that’s what this is.”

Holding his stare, Dean sinks his cock deep watching Cas blink in succession, watching his mouth drop open. And when his hips smack against Cas’ ass, Dean swears and Cas grunts and tries to find something to hold on to.

From that point forward, every single time his hips thump against Cas’ ass with a lascivious slap, both of them shout. It’s unavoidable now. Predictable raw grunts and hoarse curses.

God, it’s hot in this fucking motel room.

Sweat pours off his forehead, rivulets rolling down his back. “Good thing I’m drunk,” he says, curling forward to devour Cas’ wide open mouth, his tongue licking inside. “Mmm, if not ... I’d have finished the second I got in you. Feels so good, Cas, _so good._ You don’t even know.”

All of a sudden the room starts to spin and Dean is forced to slow down, his breath hot and thick. Too much Tequila. Always too much.

“ _Mmng_ ,” a guttural moan drags out into the room when Dean starts moving in lazy drags of his cock.

Dean curses in a rush, eyes pinned to the image of Cas taking him deep. “Always wanted you like this.” Fuck, Dean corrects, always wanted you period.

Dean is an asshole and pulls out nearly all the way just to hear Cas whine. “Just like this,” he says again, easing back in until he can’t go further.

Grunting through the fog of alcohol, Dean gives him a few quick sharp thrusts and hears the bed squeaking and creaking under them.

The former angel's eyelids start to flutter and his lip trembles, nerves raw. Dean knows he’s too close, he can see Cas’ dick hopping at the juncture of his hips, the weeping erection begging for Dean’s hand.

Entranced, Dean keeps going and watches that thick glorious sex slapping back and forth as Cas’ body endures the impact of his thrusts.

“Goddamn, you’re so fucking gorgeous,” Dean praises, barely believing this is real. “My dreams never did this moment justice. Fuck, you’ve really wanted this too, hmm? _Yeah_. Fuck, looks like you could come just like this.” Dean frees one ankle and drags a single finger down the length of Cas’ dick.

It’s perfect. All of him is.

“Yes, _uhn_ , wanted this, wanted ... you.” Cas tries to squirm under him, lewd whimpers leaving his mouth.

“Could’a had me all along,” Dean says, his tone unintentionally cruel as he meets Cas’ eyes. The resulting stare-down is a blend of heat, pent-up history, and violent emotion.

“Dean,” Cas drags his name out, eyes narrowing in frustration. “You only ... ever ... want me ... when you’re dr-dunk,” the words panted out in the calm seconds between each crash of their bodies coming together.

Taking Cas’ erection into his hand and giving it a soft squeeze, he says, “I want you all the fucking time, Cas. I’ve wanted you for years. _Years_! And right now, I want you to come all over yourself. I want to make you feel so good.”

Cas cranes back, his throat exposed in a smooth column and Dean drives in hard, straining forward so that he can latch on and suck.

Dean closes his fist over Cas’ warm shaft and squeezes, loving how achingly hard his erection must feel. A low growl leaves his mouth when he senses, however dimly, Cas’ rapid heartbeat beating, pulsing throughout his sex. Dean strokes methodically, a little too wasted to do his absolute best, but goddammit he tries.

“Fuck, I wanna see you come,” Dean rasps out, his voice harsh. He ruts in deep, overcome with tight, hot flesh spasming around the base of his cock. His rhythmic strokes on Cas' stiff sex get faster and more insistent.

“Dean, _Dean_...” Cas blinks his eyes closed, relentlessly biting his lip. "Oh fuck, keep going."

“Yeah?" Dean curls his hips forward, bringing them flush together. "God, I wanna watch you come all over yourself with my dick inside that tight ass of yours.” Having always been a bit dirty on the sex-talk when he's inebriated, it’s no different now just because there are emotions involved. If anything it makes him say more. Grazing Cas’ ear with his lips, he whispers, “Am I making you feel good, babe?”

“ _Uh_ ... yes, fuck yes,” Cas groans, arching up and licking his lips, his one leg hooking around Dean’s hip for leverage, rolling his ass in a wicked grind over Dean’s shaft, taking him in.

“Damn that’s hot. Please, please fuck me,” Dean encourages, scratching across Cas' flexed abs, his eyes rolling backwards, his thighs hard as stone.

Behind him, Cas’ heel digs into the meat of his clenching ass and when he looks down to take in the picture of it all, he’s riveted. There’s his best friend, an angel that’s saved him countless times, all twisted on the bed, the blue of his eyes narrow rings around a fiery black, his warm, thick cock tunneling in and out of Dean’s fist. All that dark hair a total mess.

And worst of all, is the smooth heat of Cas' body repeatedly gripping Dean over and over again, bringing him close to the edge. Dean’s head starts to spin as a heavy pressure settles in his pelvis, and his balls draw up towards his body.

Any second now, he’s going over. And without question, it’ll be the best moment of his life.

Whatever emotion he’s revealing seems to profoundly affect the glorious man below him. Every sound from his mouth is the beginning of some profanity or praise that’s cut short by a blatant shout or whimper.

As fast as a light being switched on, Cas unravels into pure, sexual madness on the bed, making a desperate grab for the headboard to use as bracing. That, and the hold of his one leg around Dean is enough leverage to begin fucking Dean mindless.

 _Hard_. Slamming his ass against Dean’s hips, shouting every single time.

“Jesus fuck, Cas! Oh my god ... Holy fucking shit, I’m gonna-I’m—“

Cas’ ass smacks against his hips and the hot grip spasming around his cock sends every thought soaring from his mind. Dean’s orgasm takes him over with a yell that he can’t hold back, shuddering from head to toe, come ejecting from his cock and into Cas with an ache as bad as if he’d gone weeks without getting off. It almost hurts.

Eyes shot wide, Dean glances down to see Cas moaning nonsense and jetting come all over himself. All with Dean buried deep, reveling in the contractions that pulse around his softening dick. Strips of white have landed all over Cas’ quivering abs and heaving chest, some doused across his pert nipple.

It’s the hottest damn thing he's ever seen, and he wants to lick it all up but with the arousal slipping away, the effects of nearly a whole bottle of Tequila are turning the room sideways.

There's come _all over_ his hand and as he’s too drunk to consider other options; he licks it up, sucking his fingers clean. Cas watches with lazy eyes, lids hanging low.

“Jesus fuck,” Dean exclaims, staring down in awe. A dim pleased smile settles over Cas’ sleepy expression and Dean’s heart almost explodes.

A surge of energy rises up from god knows where and Dean climbs off the bed, nearly falling over in a drunken stupor, muttering curses, and snags his t-shirt from the floor. He rejoins Cas on the bed and wipes his friend down.

Tossing the shirt back on the floor, he shoves Cas from the center of the bed, "Move over, I need to pass out so bad right now."

Before Dean has a chance to rest his leaden, foggy head, Cas pulls a death-grip on his face, yanking him close.

"Dean Winchester, I swear, if you forget this in the morning, I will actually murder you." And then Cas kisses him in an angry, exhausted smooch.

Barely able to stay lucid, he grumbles back, "Won’t be forgettin’ that! _Trust me."_ Sliding deeper under the musty, dirty blankets, Dean passes the fuck out.


	26. Chapter 26

The relentless pounding inside his skull is one hell of an alarm. Dean groans and it hurts, his voice nothing but gravel.

Flopping onto his other side, his stomach’s contents roll nauseatingly with the motion. Swallowing down some acid reflux, Dean prays it all stays down. Cracking his eyes open a slit, he can just make out the bright, fuzzy outlines of a familiar unshaven face. God, it’s too friggin’ bright. Stupid giant burning star. Dean lowers his eyelids, his corneas grateful.

Needing some other confirmation of reality, he slides his foot over under the sheet until his toes graze a hairy solid shin.

Oh, shit. Yup, that happened.

Quirking an eyebrow, Dean tries to reorganize the events of the night. Well, it started with Tequila, that much he knows for sure. And then there was some kind of striptease on his part, or more accurately an angry, disgruntled must-be-naked-now adventure. Mmm, and then he’d tasted Cas for the first time, tasted and felt him the way he’d always wanted. Damn the alcohol for robbing him of the clarity of that memory.

The light of the morning sun pours through the overwashed curtains, laying warm across his naked back. It's a few short minutes before the first wave of a hangover hot flash rolls through him and he swallows back the urge to hurl over the side of the bed.

Cas shifts next to him, and the bed dips. That strong but soft voice breaks through the silence.

“I have some water, and Advil.”

Fuck yes. The offer is like heaven to his pain-spiked cranium. Who better to offer than an angel?

“Hmm, gimme,” Dean grumbles.

A plastic-coated pill is pushed between his dry lips. Cas’ steady hand slips under his head and lifts. There’s a stiff ache in his neck, and Dean can’t help but whine a bit, but then glorious tepid water fills his ultra-dry mouth and he chugs it back along with the pill. Cas eases him back down to the pillow and the bed seems to envelope him as he sinks back into it. The knowledge of the night before is still a blurry memory swirling around his brain, but the hangover and lull of sleep keep a lot of complex thoughts at bay.

“Are you okay?” asks his naked best friend. There's no mistaking the guarded tightness of the guy’s voice.

Dean knows the question has nothing to do with his current hangover. Am I okay, he wonders? _Fucked if I know._ Deciding to turn things back around, he asks, “Are you?”

“Um ... Quite sore, to be honest, but it was worth it,” replies Cas, all calm and shit.

Feeling guilty, Dean groans and smashes his face into the stale pillow, reeking of his own sweat and stale alcohol. “Sorry,” he muffles gratingly into the thick padding.

“Dean, it’s fine.” But the words are clipped, forced, and Dean knows there’s a _much_ larger conversation they should be having but it’s too friggin’ much right now. Tequila hangovers are _not_ conducive to earth-shattering conversations. Thank god Cas receives that bright yellow Post-It.

After a beat of silence, Cas speaks up. “So how much do you actually remember from last night?”

Most of it, he's sure, even though the details are hazy. Dean uses up some brain power pulling up the most potent memories: Sweaty skin, a slick touch, heat, passion, and a tight grip so gloriously awesome that his cock perks up from its position trapped between him and the mattress. Distracted by his own perverted thoughts, he tenses his ass to force his hips into the bed delivering a nice sweet pressure over the length of himself. His breath hitches, a little _umph_ , and Cas laughs softly close to his ear.

“Yes, well, as good as last night was, don’t expect round two any time soon.”

Dean nearly chokes at the thought of round two. God damn, what has he done? Starting all this off from a drunken mission was not how a relationship between them should have started.

Cas is quiet while Dean lays there clenching his jaw, pissed at himself. All the years he had been valiantly trying to convince himself that his hedonistic thoughts about Cas were solely about attraction, a basic desire for skin-on-skin. And maybe, on some level, ‘cause he wanted Cas to dom him, too. But after last night, he’s never been clearer on how good of a liar he’s been.

To himself.

What happened last night, drunk or not, is pivotal. _Damn pivotal._

Like a sigh of relief, the painkiller starts to kick in, dulling the throb in his skull. It has a softening effect on him, tempering the dramatic implications of what happened. Dean can almost, _almost_ , forget that he’s naked and in bed with his best friend Cas, former guardian angel, former savior, and fellow survivor.

And that’s the thing, too. They’re both survivors in a world that’s got fuck all to offer. What does a relationship even look like in this life? Half the time they’re caked in dirt, and in serious need of deodorant. Food’s meagre. Violence greets you at every turn. Dean’s never gonna be able to show Cas what it’s really like. He’ll never get to drive them out in the Impala to a star-lit night and make love to him in the backseat. Yeah, it’s cheesy as all hell, but Dean would’ve liked the option.

But the other thing that can’t escape his thoughts, is that, after last night? There’s no going back. Yeah, he’s freaked a little. Nervous too. Absolutely clueless on how to actually do this thing with Cas; what a regular day together would look like. But he knows, without a doubt, that it’ll be better than it was before.

Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? Shit, maybe he’ll be happy for once? Maybe they’ll find something spectacular and fucking stars will align and shit, maybe the world will get its bearings back from being fucked six ways to Sunday.

Restraining a hopeful swell in his heart, he takes a breath. _Maybe._

Allowing the new reality to settle in him, and grateful that he’d been smart enough to tuck a chair under the doorknob in his midnight booty call, Dean adjusts against the musty bed and sweat-stench and makes solid plans to keep on sleeping.

Besides, the adjacent warmth of Cas' body is pretty damn awesome. And that's saying something considering his regrettable tequila hangover.

As Dean’s drifting off, nearly unaware, Cas creeps closer and licks over the curve of his ear, causing shivers to roll down his spine and limbs, goosebumps chasing the sensation.

“If you’re okay with it, I’d really like to have your mouth on me again later,” Cas whispers in this rough, seductive voice that has Dean about ready to hop up onto all fours and beg to be taken apart in all the best ways there is.

“Jesus, Cas,” replies Dean. One lay, and Cas is already making demands with damning skillful delivery. Using a voice the equivalent of ecstasy. Oh man, Dean’s in well over his head now.

Licking over his dry lips, he’s glad to be facing away. This way, Cas can’t see the embarrassing blush creeping into his cheeks sure as if a blow dryer was blasting against his face.

Out of nowhere, a hand reaches down over his back with purpose to grope his ass.

Fuck sleep. This is an eyes wide open situation.

“Cas,” he breathes out, shock lacing his tone. When did the former angel take the reins?

The only response he’s graced with is a shift closer and a soft enamoured sigh as his best friend continues to shamelessly feel him up. The dragging, persistent touch goes on long enough to get him hard as iron, rolling his hips against the bed in a not-so-subtle chase for friction.

Abruptly, Cas pulls back and turns away. The creaky bed bounces and groans with the ex-angel’s weight as he settles himself. Poised for some continuation of the good stuff, Dean hears a long, soft sigh and waits a little longer. No way he went to sleep after that. No way—

A dim snore rumbles up from his left.

That ... fucking ... _jackass!_

Dean contemplates violence. _Apparently_ , with the now permitted fucking, teasing is also on the menu.

 _Fine_. That's how it's gonna be, huh?

Dean’s sure as hell going to have the last laugh on that one.

As he’s currently denting the mattress with a monstrous hard-on, it’s pretty fucking clear that he won’t be falling asleep in any reasonable time-frame. At least, not without finishing himself off. Decided, he flops over onto his back and quietly jacks off, wondering if Cas will wake up to listen, maybe feel the bed quiver with his jerky movements.

Sliding a closed fist over his length, feeling the soft skin move with the friction of his palm, his breath takes a turn for the uneven. Looking over the pillow, he can make out the slow rise of Cas’ chest and can’t help the faint moan that eases past his lips. If Cas is awake, the guy doesn’t bother to lend a hand.

Dean bites his upper lip, his nerves prickling with the feeling of mischief, wondering what it would be like to have Cas wake up and set his crisp blue eyes on the way Dean’s canting his hips in time with his fist. The whole thing is kind of funny, going to town on himself laying next to Cas, but he’s too damn horny to laugh.

Heat envelops him, and he starts to gasp for air, body tensing on the bed. Dean can’t stop his eyes from darting to the side, memories of the night before rushing back with near painful detail.

Oh, fuck…

Being hungover and tired has him in a daze, and when he starts to come, the release is slow, gradual. Almost peaceful, as if his cock’s sighing with each flow of ejaculate spilling over his fist and dampening the covers.

“Goddamn, that was awesome,” he acknowledges in a low whisper.

Positive that there should be some retribution for the teasing, he wipes the mess from himself and runs his fingers through Cas’ hair, stifling a snigger. Cas shifts, straining into the touch—still completely asleep, then.

 _Ha_! Have fun waking up with a head of hair full of crusty come, you teasing shit-face.

Nodding to himself, satisfied, Dean turns and falls asleep with a wide, dumbass grin. It doesn’t occur to him that he hasn’t felt this happy in a long time. Maybe since long before the whole world went to shit.

A bang startles him awake nearly four hours later. Cas is up and trying to put his pants on. _Trying_ , as he apparently failed on the second leg and crashed against the wood dresser. The same dresser that Dean vaguely remembers tossing a bottle of booze into.

"Watch yourself, s'probably glass on the floor."

"I cleaned it up already," Cas informs him.

He should probably get up too, he realizes, wondering how much of the day has passed. Shifting the covers to move, he freezes.

"Pass me a gun."

Cas pauses, his jeans half-undone. "Why?"

Seeing the faint smear of red on the bed, he answers, "So I can fucking shoot myself in the face."

Quickly, with understanding, Cas scrambles back onto the bed, his pants left open. "Hey," he says, grabbing Dean's shoulders and looking him in the eye. "I'm fine. Don't worry about it."

All he sees is the red, and remembering his hasty inconsiderate moves last night makes him sick. Being drunk is no excuse for being rough. Being desperate to have Cas be with him is no excuse. Letting his eyes lose focus, he tries to ignore the concern set on him. Fuck, he doesn’t deserve Cas. Not by a long shot.

"I'm so damn sorry, Cas, I was wasted and wasn’t thinking clear. Fuck, our first time should not have been like that. I shouldn't’ve—"

"Dean, you're being an idiot. If there was anything I couldn't handle, I would have stopped you."

"But—"

"—But suck it up. I have literally beat you to near death before, and we've moved past that," he says, trying for a joke, but then his face tenses with worry. "At least, um, I hope we have," Cas adds hastily, sporting a sheepish grin. How is possible that Cas looks _that_ adorable during this conversation?

Dean drops his head in shame, unable to meet his considerate blue eyes. True enough, Cas _has_ beat him senseless on two occasions, but the one time he'd royally deserved it, and the second time Cas had been vessel-snatched by Naomi. Neither exactly count in his books.

"Just, look, don't _ever_ let me do that again," Dean demands. Not because he doesn't think Cas can't handle a little rough sex, the guy’s tough, there’s no question. But if things get too far, it’ll remind Dean of Hell, and there’s no way he’s letting any of that into his and Cas’ relationship. If that’s what they’re in now.

"Next town we hit, we'll procure some items so we don't have to worry about this again. Sound reasonable?"

Dean nods, "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

Still, he feels like an ass.

Cas shakes him gently by the shoulders. "Pouting doesn’t suit you. Get up." In a flash, Cas’ rugged handsome face turns harsh—some unhappy thought taking over. "Oh, and by the way," he starts off, running his fingers through damp hair. Ah, shit. "I _will_ get you back for that."

"Wait—what? C’mon! That was revenge!" Dean exclaims, jumping out of the bed. Cas dashes away from him, and suddenly it's game on and they’re both laughing and breathless.

Cas pelts him with his own clothes, but he's been at the hunting game a _loooong_ time, and in less than a minute he has Cas up against the bathroom door. Their playful laughter and touch chokes off like an empty tank leaving them licking their lips and eye-fucking each other.

"Umm," Dean swallows, "we should, uh, leave the room, I think."

"Yes. Probably." Cas narrows his eyes, trying to gauge how serious he is.

Based on the way he’s moving closer, obviously not _that_ serious. Cas grins at him and his heart does some gymnastics against his rib cage.

Fuck, this can’t be real.

Oh God, pathetic much? Second-guessing reality because his heart won’t settle the fuck down. Relax, dude, he tries to tell himself. In his defence, Dean can’t remember _ever_ feeling this way before. The tune ‘ _Finding love in a hopeless place,’_ starts pumping through his brainwaves and he’s almost tempted to start humming. But yeah, that would be lame.

Shaking his head clear of a feelsies overload and manning up, he leans in to steal a sober taste of Cas’ mouth.

It shakes him to the core, having this clear-headed moment the morning after. He savours the velvet brush of Cas’ lips, framed by the coarse week-old scruff he’s got goin’ on. Wrapping an arm around Cas’ lower back, Dean drags him close and deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue into the silky warmth. The moan that vibrates from Cas’ bare chest makes him instantly hard.

And then it hits him.

He’s naked, rubbing his erection against Cas’ hip, almost reduced to whimpers over a little tongue-on-tongue action.

Granted, Cas' tongue is soft and silky and he tastes like cinnamon toothpaste.

Talk about a one-eighty from a broken friendship to this make-out sesh. Maybe they need to pause for a minute or two. Pulling away, Dean swallows back errant emotion and smiles.

“Definitely time to leave to the room,” he says.

Cas’ face is flushed pink, lips perfectly swollen, and gorgeous multi-faceted blue eyes all unfocused in the best kind of way. He’s the picture of a compliment.

It might’ve been Dean’s decision to leave the room, but it doesn’t stop him from complaining relentlessly as he gets dressed. Who knows what’ll happen when he walks out the door.

For sure, there’ll be a couple dozen sets of eyes ready to look him over and picture what he and Cas were unquestionably doing the night before. And there will be questions ... and he'll need to provide answers. Answers that he doesn’t possess.

At the door, Dean throws his palm out to stop Cas from opening the thing.

"Dean," Cas groans, getting impatient.

"What do we say?"

"What do you want to say?"

Stepping to the right of that landmine, he shrugs. "How about I leave that up to you!" And with that, Dean charges out the door and beelines for the tallest individual he can find.

The guy in question, Sam obviously, is standing by the side of the road, past the cracked parking lot, hands on his hips. There are a bunch of people grouped near the picnic tables but Dean made sure not to make eye contact. He wonders if Sam separated himself for Dean’s benefit.

That's what family is for, right? To be there after you've done the nasty with your best friend and want to avoid the public. Of course the public nowadays consists of stragglers in a dead world, but whatever.

It’s windy today; a steady blow from the north that makes his eyes water. Dean can feel the stiffness of his limbs and back as he approaches.

Sam doesn't acknowledge him even once they're side-by-side. They both watch the landscape for several minutes before either of them feel the need to break the silence. The murmur of voices at the motel is lowered significantly by the strong breeze.

"So," says Sam.

"Yeah _,_ _uh_ , care to just skirt on past the elephant in the room?" he suggests, eyeing his brother from the side.

"We can. If you want."

Dean makes a face, unsure if Sam is suggesting he should talk, or maybe he doesn’t care either way? There's no preceding thought that prompts what he says next, "I had sex with Kate."

"I know." Sam smirks. "She told me a few nights ago."

And that’s not all! he thinks, channeling the voice of Bob Barker. He didn't wear a condom. With Cas neither. Man, his dad would haymaker him real good for that. Then again, John Winchester did father an illegitimate child. Not that he and Cas would have that problem. But anyway…

"Sammy, I'm, ah fuck, I'm real sorry to say this, but I kinda didn't wear a raincoat, if you feel me?"

His brother turns to the side in a snap, triggered to life with that tidbit. "Jesus, Dean!"

"I know! Sorry!" He throws his hands up. "I didn't, ya know ... I pulled out, okay?!"

Holy awkward.

Sam huffs for a minute but seems to get over it. "Whatever. I know you didn't get her pregnant anyway, and thankfully, even with your history, I'm pretty sure Cas would never have let you walk around disease-ridden before."

He grimaces. "Gee, thanks Sammy."

"Well…" Sam raises his eyebrows. Translation: It's the truth and you know it.

The whole conversation makes Dean mega uncomfortable. Not just outing his one-nighter with Kate, but skimming over his drunken-fuck with Cas, and then glossing over his unhealthy, former lifestyle. The possibility that Cas had ever healed him of an STD is cringe-worthy. He might have to ask about that. For Sam's sake, at least.

"Remember Annie?” says Dean, grinning at Sam.

His brother laughs in a boisterous way. "Oh man! Yeah, I remember. I think she may have even slept with Dad.”

They both shudder. That’s the kind of thing that family just shouldn’t share.

"So ... I'm gonna walk away now."

"Umm, yeah, same." Sam makes a stiff, hasty retreat towards the front office where Dean can see Ray and Kyle chatting away.

On the walk back, Dean scratches his arm, itches his nose, ruffles his hair—basically fidgets in any way possible, dreading the idea of placing himself amongst people that might ask questions, or tease him.

He keeps his head down. There's a tiny blip in conversation when he finds himself close enough to be considered "in the room" as it were. Josh comes up and punches him in the chest. He rubs the spot and waits for the man to say something.

"You owe me a bottle of booze man."

He winces. Oh, right. "Yeah, my bad. I'll replace it if I have to wade through the dead to get it."

"You better." The man shoots him a lopsided smile. Josh leans in to whisper, "I take it the alcohol was adequately utilized?"

Even though he doesn't consciously know where Cas is, his eyes find their target in a heartbeat. The familiar face seems to grin at Dean without hesitation.

"Yes," Dean answers.

 


	27. Chapter 27

One more night at the motel will be spent before they head out on the road again. Sam's been listening to the CB, and for the first time in a long while, a sketchy voice makes it through the speakers, calling from Spokane. The crackly message tells people to head to Wenatchee, that there’s some kind of settlement in Okanogan National Forest.

People are hopeful, Cas included. Dean knows better. After last night and this morning, his good fortune’s about tapped and he knows it.

The sun begins to set, casting a thick orange across the sky. It’s calmer now that the wind has died down from the violent gusts of earlier in the day.

Dean finds himself walking down the side of the road alone. His purpose when he'd left the group was to think, to figure out how to go forward from here, but the calm of the approaching evening has blanked his mind and he takes the peace in stride.

He's on his way back when he hears movement down the side of the ditch towards the thick trees, not so much woods as a strip of vegetation shielding the road from properties on the west side. The air is thicker the further down the slope he goes, the sharp scent of pine and moist earth in his nose.

A low mix of groans and sloppy sounds come from around a hump in the shape of the earth and he pulls out a knife, stepping lightly over mushy ground and decayed bits of leaves from the previous fall.

Bracing with his free hand on the bark of a tree, he walks up the side of the mound to get closer to his target—a mangled infected, he's sure. The scene that meets his eyes is in fact, a mangled infected, but not what he'd pictured.

It's a damn kid.

A girl at that. What used to be long red hair is now strips of dirty lines that spill over her pocketed face. Her body is withered, hollowed out of meat and substance, so he can't be sure of the age, but not likely more than seven when she'd died.

Her twisted limb is snagged between the gnarly crevice of two boulders. She'd obviously fallen and snapped her spindly leg, the tendons and sinewy bits keeping her tethered.

The rolling in his stomach lurches violently and he twists his waist in a haste to send the burning contents sailing away from the spot in front of him. The sound startles her and her clouded eyes focus on him like prey. Dirty jaws and brown little teeth chomp in his direction. Somehow, Dean ends up on his knees, staring unfocused as a fit of vertigo attacks him.

He has to wipe his face several times before he can muster the energy or the courage to stab her through the skull. After the crunch and squelch of the act, he hurls a second time; dry-heaving mostly.

The whole walk back, he's stiff. His reaction and all that sudden pain is buried where it should be. If nothing else, at least he's no longer bogged down by the trials and worries of a budding relationship.

At the motel, he walks straight to the door of Cas' room. Even if nothing had happened the night before, he would have come here. For the company of a friend, for a moment where he isn't alone with his thoughts.

Inside the room, Cas is reading the bible. It's funny, he's never seen Cas read the bible before. The guy must’ve found one in the night-stand.

"And what does God say about all this?" he asks, crawling up onto the end of the bed and resting his head on Cas' crossed shins. It's bony and uncomfortable but he doesn't care.

"God says nothing, Dean. He's gone."

"What do you say?"

"I say ... we have an early start tomorrow. There's a bucket of clean water in the bathroom, clean up and come to bed."

Dean doesn't respond except to get up and do as he's told. He's not thinking much beyond immediate bodily movements. The world's become a scene to him, and he's moving through like the audience of a 3D movie. In the bathroom, he finds the bucket of warmish water and pours some in a big splash into the already plugged sink. There are speckles of dark blood on his hands and a clump of matted hair on his sleeve.

The button-up he’s wearing gets torn off and left on the floor. He uses the blunt edge of his nails to scrape the flecks of red from his hands. Dean can't fathom the number of times he's cleaned blood from his hands, but this time hits him differently. Using a second splash of water, he scrubs at his teeth with his finger and a dollop of toothpaste. He used to have a toothbrush but he’d lost it recently and hasn’t had the opportunity to replace it.

The face in the grimy mirror he's seen before, but tonight he doesn't really recognize it. Walking back into the room, he knows— _he can feel_ —Cas considering his mood, but they both ignore it. The t-shirt he has on is pulled over his head and thrown onto Cas' backpack nearby. He steps out of his jeans, and clad only in boxers, slumps heavily onto the closest side of the bed.

The warmth of Cas' body is a line of heat along his back even though they aren't touching. Tonight, he's not thinking of Cas as an attractive man with whom he can sate his desire, but his best friend who, same as many other nights before this one, he just needs the company of.

⊢≬⊣

Castiel lies awake longer than he would like. He knows tomorrow will be a tiring day since there's actually a goal in their travel this time. Searching out survivors means less time to stop and rest and a good night’s sleep is really what he needs. But when Dean returned from his walk with a grim expression, he couldn't help thinking it had to do with them, worried that Dean was going to back-peddle.

The whole day they hadn’t said much. In fact, Dean had chatted with his brother and some of the other guys, but not Cas. Sure, there were casual glances, faint secretive-type smiles, but no real conversation.

For his part, Castiel had spent a good while hanging out with Lexi, starting a fire for everyone and getting some food cooked up. As the sun began to dip, he'd watched Dean casually walk towards the road and head north, getting the impression Dean wanted to be left to his own thoughts. Years of living on the road together has given him a pretty keen bead on knowing what Dean needs.

When Dean had come back, limbs dragging through the door, Castiel had expected a conversation to unfold, but instead Dean abjectly curled at the foot of the bed, resting his head against Castiel's legs.

And now, occasional distressed murmurs rise from the man sleeping next to him. Muted whimpers break the silence of the room, and the odd jerking motion disturbs the old mattress. Dean’s having a nightmare. It’s not a frequent thing. Not anymore.

Cas desperately hopes he’s not the cause.

In the past, he’d noticed that Dean would sleep fitfully like this after something particularly traumatic. Before he lost his powers, he’d had clever ways of redirecting Dean’s dreams. Now, all he can do is rub Dean's arm, squeezing gently to let him know that there's someone beside him.

Castiel falls asleep with his fingers wrapped over Dean's bicep, and his face turned into Dean’s shoulder.

⊢≬⊣

It takes a few days to reach Okanagan Forest. The summer air is thick, lacking oxygen, and it makes sleeping difficult. But they manage.

Castiel is walking at Sam's side through the winding two-lane road, listening to the younger Winchester discuss his hopes for the future.

The hope that Sam has is refreshing—his desire for the return of civilization and how he thinks it’s possible. This being said not a half-hour after they'd disposed of several infected bodies they'd run into on the road. Gangly, wretched things milling about down the centreline had been taken care of swiftly and with a growing apathy that made Castiel's heart a little cold.

Even though dying didn’t seem to stop the forward motions of the infected, their being dead also didn't pacify him when they had to be permanently put down. These things were not evil, despite wanting to eat people and other living creatures. They’re sick. And so each time Castiel has to snap one of their necks or puncture their brains with his knife or sever their spinal cords with his machete, he feels whatever part of him that used to be an angel turn a bit darker.

"…but it doesn't have to be, ya know, a huge thing or anything. Just a little cluster at first, some plots of land to grow things, try to find some animals. It could work, Cas," says a very hopeful Sam, glancing to the side for support.

"I suppose. Finding a place to settle would be difficult. Combatting the seasons certainly trying as well."

"Well, yeah, of course. But we're not the first humans to go through this."

"I remember."

Sam considers that. "Guess you would. Any tips, then?"

Castiel smirks. "Be mindful of superior settlers."

It makes Sam laugh, which is what he'd been going for. "Do you mind me asking how things are with Dean?" asks Sam.

A fleeting glimpse over his shoulder confirms that Dean is quite a ways back, Kyle and Matty at either side of him. In front of the trio, walking backwards, is Josh, his meaty hands gesturing with a story that’s only a low murmur of noise Castiel can't fully make out.

"I'm honestly not sure," he replies. Truth is, after that night, they both hedged towards any further action. There was something uncomfortable about things now. Not in a way that he’s able to explain, either. What worries him most is that Dean’s not inclined to easy displays of affection, never mind the continuous patterns of it that mark a relationship. And for Castiel? Well, he’s got zero useable experience in how to deal with Dean.

“What do you mean?” Sam peers over his shoulder at his brother and then faces Cas straight on.

Maybe Sam can shed some light on the whole thing. “Your brother is a complex person, and I’m not sure what I should or shouldn’t be doing around him. We seem to have fallen into a strange uncertainty with each other, neither of us knowing how to get used to what we’re supposed to be now.”

Sam makes a noise in his throat, pondering the situation. “I’m not surprised. No offence, but you both suck at being open with each other. It’s why it took you guys a billion years to hook up. And for a while there, I thought for sure things had crashed and burned before it really took off. The way Dean acted after last winter? I mean, I still don’t know what happened, but something had broken in him.”

Cas frowns. “It’s because I pulled back, I think. Something happened, and your brother didn’t remember because he’d been sick, and I couldn’t handle the idea of an almost. At the time, I was sure Dean saw me as nothing more than a means for release.”

Sam stops short and stares at him. “Are you kidding?! Dean’s a goner for you. I feel a bit guilty, ya know. Before all this shit happened, I’d had so many half-formed plans of locking you two up somehow and forcing you both to out your feelings for each other. But ... knowing my brother, it was a thin line between forcing you both into a relationship and breaking whatever it was that had started in the first place.”

“And therein lies my predicament,” Cas goes on. “Your brother is this incredible man, and he’d do anything for the people he cares about, even die. That’s not an issue, I know he cares about me. But the fact is, I can’t even bring myself to hold his hand, not knowing how he’d react.”

Sam laughs. “Yeah, okay. I see your problem. Look, don’t worry too much, things have a way of working themselves out.”

“I hope so.”

Kate jogs back to them from ahead at that moment, and Castiel decides to say nothing more on the subject of Dean. He catches Sam's eye several times after that but there isn't much more to be said anyway, so he turns to face the road ahead.

Six tense days have passed since he and Dean first slept together, and while they've spent every night together since, everything has reverted to the way it was before, when they were friends and often chose to sleep in the same space rather than apart.

Castiel never realized that not many of the others did that unless absolutely necessary. The thought warms him, but he wonders why—when he'd expected some grand explosion of their joining as a couple—it seems to fizzle with anxious almost-touches and evasive glances.

The first night after reaching the woods, they haven’t ventured deep enough to find signs of life. Having a full set of tents available also means that everyone is able to sleep in comfortable groups of two.

Dean's setting up their stuff while Cas sharpens both their knives and long blades. He's sitting on his rain jacket on the damp ground when Dean comes over to plunk beside him with a huff.

"Hey."

The whole week since that one night has been driving him mad, so he says, "Do you want to go for a walk with me later? Maybe hunt?"

"Sure." Dean leans over and pauses close to his face, before whispering, "Everything good?"

Not really. "Of course."

He can feel Dean narrow his eyes, but then there's a brush of lips against his ear, Dean moving to kiss him lightly behind it. The touch tingles and he wants to lean into it but he doesn't.


	28. Chapter 28

After a dinner consisting of garlic-flavoured rice cakes dipped in Ragu sauce, Dean picks up the shotgun with the camo stock loaded with bear rounds. The all-black one he sets up for Cas, with some No. 5's. Really, he's not expecting to see a bear or anything big, but it's better safe than sorry. He's taken a box of ammo that Ray's set up with demon sigils laced with salt, so he's set from that end of things as well.

And if he happens to find a demon possessing a bear, he's got it covered! That would be both wicked awesome and super terrifying.

Part of Dean hopes they get eaten by cougars because it would mean avoiding whatever awkward talk they definitely hadn't had back in that motel in Idaho. Probably why it's been weird since.

He hears Cas stroll up. The thud of his boots over the packed dirt are unmistakable.

"Ready?"

"Yeah— _Here_ ," he says, passing him the .28.

Moving north, they walk around the edge of where they've set up camp. Sam stops them to ask that they look for signs that people have been through this way, and of course, they will.

They walk over a mile before either says a word. Cas has the shotgun strapped around his back. Dean's holding his ready, angled low. Truth is, they’re not really trying and they both know it. If they actually wanted to hunt, they’d be setting up somewhere and not making a peep.

"I didn't actually want to hunt, Dean," confesses Cas.

Chewing the inside of his lip, Dean replies, "Oh, I know."

"So." Cas looks at him, eyebrows up high.

"Hey, I'm not the one who wanted to go for a walk in the woods," Dean rationalizes. There’s no way he’s taking a first stab at this conversation. If he can’t organize his own thoughts, how’s he supposed to frame up some sentences?

"Dean, I don’t know how to do this!" Cas dives right in with it.

"You think I do?" Of the two of them, Cas probably has more useable relationship experience than he does.

"Dean!" Cas drones, dropping his head dramatically.

“Ugh! _Fine_." Shoving his arm through the strap of the shotgun, Dean flings the weight around to his back, and faces Cas before he spews out what’s on his mind. "Here's the thing, neither of us have any idea what the hell we’re doing. I don't know how to act around you any more than you know how to act around me. I know hunting and surviving Cas, I'm no good at the relationship crap! You know that. Heck, you saw me when I was with Lisa—I was a fucking basket-case!"

"No, you weren't," Cas tries to argue, but Dean waves him quiet.

"Oh I was, and you know it. You just ... you're a little blind when it comes to me. And that's okay. I know that. I'm the same with you and Sam. As for this," he motions between them, "all I can say is that I like being next to you, whatever else ... I don't know." Dean shrugs pathetically.

It's not how he wants things to come across, his words seem to diminish the breadth of his feelings, as if he doesn’t care. He does. But that's also the problem, they both suck balls at being honest. Even on the verge of death, they've always kept their mouths shut.

Cas paces a bit, running his palm across his mouth as he thinks. "Dean, I want to kiss you,” Cas starts off, and Dean’s ready to get on board with that plan.

Way the fuck better than talking.

He’s already moving in when Cas holds his hand up. “No, wait. I want to kiss you and touch you around the others but I'm worried you'll get all, um, Dean-like." With that, Cas shrugs and makes a face at him.

Dean can't help but smile at the guy. It’s hilarious that Cas is worried about PDA. The whole walk out here Dean had been dreading the conversation, thinking they were going to delve into twelve-point discussion about feelings and the past and all that kinda crap.

Eyes roaming Cas’ body from boots to bed-head, he echoes back, "Dean-like?"

Ever the dramatic, Cas rolls his eyes and groans. Dean notices now just how disastrous his hair is, sticking up in nine-thousand different directions. Is that a twig in there?

"Yes, you know, the macho demeanor that Ray hates. All that, ‘ _I don't cuddle or hug or bla-bla-bla’_ "—At this point Dean’s holding back riotous laughter—"But dammit Dean! This is so stupid. Humans are infuriating!" With that, Cas tromps off away from him, swinging his gun around at the ready.

My God, what are you gonna do, he wonders, shoot me?

Dean rushes up behind Cas, careful of the loaded shotgun, and slips his arms around Cas' waist, resting his chin against the base of his neck.

As expected, Cas halts, lowering his arms.

"You're kind of cute like this," Dean says, surprising himself, but unable to hold back his grin. “All pent up and flustered.”

His best friend's shoulders lift with a breath, exhaling in big gush. "I'm not trying to be cute _,_ Dean!"

Navigating this new thing the last several days has been tiring for them both, he guesses, but Dean decides this new relationship isn’t as terrifyingly foreign as he thought. And the thing is, he knows they’ll work out the kinks. Part of this conclusion, mind you, is driven by the desire of not wanting to talk anymore. Other intentions on his mind.

The second Dean’s mouth closes against the skin where Cas' neck meets his shoulder, he feels the guy’s whole body stiffen.

His touch doesn't stop there, nor had he planned to. He trails up the side of Cas' neck, openly sucking the campfire scented skin. When he reaches the underside of Cas' jaw, right near his ear, he hears and feels Cas drop his gun.

"This was really not my plan," says Cas, his voice growing thick with his reaction to Dean's touch.

Laughing in triumph, Dean’s hand skims down Cas' stomach, lifting the hem of his shirt and reaching up under to feel across the warmth of his skin. The former angel leans back towards his chest, head resting on Dean's shoulder. His eyes are closed, though Dean wishes they weren't.

The smile he gets when he licks the curve of Cas' ear and gropes down the front of his jeans is exhilarating. That’s it, he wants Cas _right_ now.

Right fucking here.

Undoing someone else’s jeans when you're distracted by an ass rubbing against your crotch is not easy. But Dean manages, and the second the front is parted, he shoves his hand inside and right in through the front slit of Cas' boxers.

Mmm, already hard for him.

Dean strokes him gently, building up the pleasure. Turning towards Cas’ neck, Dean resumes kissing and sucking along his throat.

"Fuck, I want you now." Man, he sounds desperate.

Cas makes a needy noise in the back of his throat, reaching back to grasp at Dean's thigh and drag their lower bodies closer, pressing them tight together. “We’re supposed to be talking,” mutters Cas, his tone already exuding defeat.

Dean squeezes Cas’ firm cock and gives his delicate skin a nip with his teeth. “Cas, we’re not big talkers, you and I. We stare,” Dean elaborates, stroking Cas’ length, “we touch, we fantasize, we take care of each other. Words aren’t the only way to communicate, ya know.”

Skimming his nose over Cas’ neck, taking in his scent, Dean slowly pulls out of Cas’ boxers. Grabbing the top of his jeans and underwear, he starts shoving them down. Watching over Cas’ shoulder, Dean licks his lips when that thick erection catches on his clothes as Dean pulls them down. It bobs back up as everything falls to the forest floor and all he can think about is feeling it slide in his palm.

Jesus, the image of Cas pantsless in the woods is like a fucking buffet breakfast.

"You make me crazy,” Dean whispers into his ear.

Closing his fist around Cas, Dean starts off nice and slow, working up and down the stiff length. Standing this way, Deans finds it easy to touch Cas the way he would for himself. Lips pressed against Cas’ ear, Dean asks him how he wants it.

"Mm, just-just like this. Dean it’s you ... this is exactly how I want it."

Dean bites him, his teeth making crescent dents in the soft skin at the side of his neck. With his free hand, he grabs onto Cas’ hip and holds tight, rolling his groin against the soft swell of Cas' ass. Seeing his own dirty jeans, sporting quite the bulge, rubbing hard against all that bare skin, chafing it red, is making him nuts.

Holy fuck, I'm going to come in my pants, he realizes. But he shouldn’t because he doesn’t think he can make it back to camp without being seen.

But god, he wants to. Doesn't want to pause this moment to get rid of stupid clothes. Because it’s more than enough, watching Cas from this vantage point, seeing his fist work over Cas' sex.

If anything interrupts this moment, he’ll be switching gears towards homicidal.

Dean ups his pace, mouthing at Cas' neck, using his teeth in firm nips that never fail to make Cas moan _obscenely_ loud, rubbing his ass back against Dean.

"Dean…" Cas laments, his eyes cinching shut, visibly aching to finish. Dean digs his fingers into the curve beside Cas' hip, rutting against him, seeking his own crash into ecstasy.

"Oh, fuck. Oh my—" The word ‘ _God’_ is no more than a sharp breath that puffs out over Cas’ ear.

Shocking Dean, Cas’ orgasm takes off out of nowhere, his body curling in tight, his ass pushing back against Dean.

Feeling Cas shudder in his arms, watching it all, sends Dean over the edge seconds later, and he bites down on Cas' shoulder to choke off the need to shout through his release. As each wave wracks through him, he clutches around Cas’ body, holding him tight. It still feels as though it’s not enough.

By the time Dean gets his senses back, he realizes his hand is basically dripping come, Cas is starting to sink down against him in a sated, half-naked mess, and the crotch of his jeans are damp.

Despite their combined discomfort, neither of them make any effort to move apart. Dean can’t help his wandering hand as he goes back to Cas’ slowly softening dick and gives it another gentle pull. Not too shockingly, Cas flinches back with a hiss. “Ahh, sensitive.”

Dean reluctantly lets go. “Sorry, my hands have a mind of their own.”

With a laugh and a sigh, Cas throws his head back and it plunks onto Dean’s shoulder.

"How am I gonna explain this?" asks Dean, his lips moving against Cas' skin, ending the sentence with a kiss.

The angel laughs in a lazy way. "You could say you saw a bear and peed yourself."

What an ass. Dean pinches his side. "Calling me a coward?"

"It's that, or you can say that you dry-humped my ass and came in your pants."

Dean barks a laugh, throwing his head back. "I’d never hear the end of it." Kissing Cas just below his ear, he says, “I swear I’m a grown man, Cas. This whole coming in the pants thing is a fluke, I promise.”

“I’m not bothered. It’s quite the compliment. Besides, I’m not the one who needs to walk around that way.”

Dean makes a low noise in his throat as he’s drawing back and lays a good slap to Cas’ bared ass. Both cheeks are tinged red from being chafed by Dean’s jeans but the smack is hard enough that he can faintly notice a handprint. It’s awesome.

“There. Now we’re even.”

When Cas turns back around, shirt twisted, pants around his ankles, he’s sporting a sarcastic smirk. “Yes, Dean, you leaving a transient handprint on my ass is _entirely_ the same as my dangerous, life-threatening foray into hell and clutching your soul so tightly that it leaves a brand.”

Dean makes a stupid face. “Show-off.”

Some bizarre, goofy mood has taken ahold of him and he catches himself chewing on his lip in an effort to tamper down on the clown-like grin he can feel trying to pry its way onto his face.

“Pleased with yourself?” Cas extends his arms, showcasing his debauched condition.

Damn. There goes his hold on that ridiculous ear-to-ear smile he’d been restraining. Might as well own up to it. “Yes, actually”—Dean nods to himself—“I am.”

Standing back, he watches Cas get himself back in order. One look down reminds him of his own predicament. Hmm, to return with a wet crotch or without pants? Dean almost thinks the latter is the better option. Cas, of course, seems to find it all super hilarious, and keeps breaking up into fits of giggles each time his eyes catch sight of the damp spot on Dean's jeans.

"Ugh, shut up. This is all your fault," he grumbles, reaching up to mock-strangle Cas.

Fuck, when Cas smiles the way he's doing now, so bright, his eyes crinkling in the corners, it makes Dean want to reset the world somehow. Their playfulness dies away and something different settles in.

Standing there, caught in a moment, the nearly forgotten sun casting long shadows, Dean's hands slide down to Cas' shoulders, to his chest, and finally down to the top of his jeans where he can use the worn fabric to pull Cas in.

His head is closed in by the frame of Cas' arms coming up around him and they fall together for a lingering kiss. It’s fucking perfect. Nothing’s ever felt this good.

Dean breaks away, finding his breaths are all hitchy and loud, useless lungs cutting him short on oxygen.

Staring at Cas’ shadowed face, a narrow inch between them, Dean memorizes the way his broad cheeks slope down to his jaw, how his eyebrows slant together when he’s deep in thought, how the array of blue and grey in his eyes changes with the light.

Dean brings his thumb to Cas’ lips and brushes across them, his heart suddenly beating a mile a minute. He feels the gun hanging heavy on his back, the semen dried and crusty on the front of his jeans.

It’s ridiculous. The whole friggin’ situation, but he doesn’t give a single shit.

"I love you," blurts Dean, his voice absolutely wrecked.

 _Wow_. Talk about a brain-ejection or what. Or, heck, maybe his heart, probably. Nonetheless, Dean hadn’t exactly planned the love confession.

It’s no surprise, though. The emotion’s been building in him, festering the way insane love does and ripping apart all his predispositions.

It was only a matter of time before the distended emotion spring-loaded itself and flew out of him in some dumbass moment. And that’s saying something, considering he’s about as good at the feelings thing as a human is breathing water.


	29. Chapter 29

Castiel’s throat constricts with an onslaught of something he can’t begin to understand. It’s more than a feeling, it’s a concrete thing. Dean loves him and he said it. Out loud. To his face.

Did that actually just happen?

All at once, he wants to curse and sing. Maybe both. Instead, he wraps his arms around Dean and squeezes as hard as the human body can. Hard enough, at least, to make Dean’s ribs shift.

Cas hasn’t felt this out of sorts since the night Dean came to his room drunk on Tequila. Self-conscious of his reaction tightening up his throat, he ducks his face down so that it presses into Dean's chest, where a strong, rapid heartbeat calms his nerves.

For the first time, he understands the phrase, ‘Too good to be true.’ After living with an ache in his heart for years, he can hardly make sense of the unparalleled joy.

It’s been awhile since Dean spoke and he can feel nervous hands brushing down his spine and squeezing the back of his neck.

Breathing in Dean’s scent, he whispers back, "I love you too." There's a hitch in his voice that he’s positive Dean picks up on.

"Are you crying?!" teases Dean, trying to push him back.

Cas hides his face and tries to turn away. "No."

Dean's laughing. "Aww, come here you big baby!” Grabbing his face, Dean angles him up to scrutinize, no doubt. Cas grudgingly smiles back knowing how senseless he must look. Maybe if he’d been human longer than a few years, he’d be better at containing the extremes of emotion.

A few chuckles escape Dean in a lingering way and Cas does not enjoy being made fun of. “I take it back,” he declares, “I don’t love you.”

Dean’s having none of that. “Liar. You’re crazy in love with me. Can’t take it back now.” With a searing kiss that steals his breath, Dean overcomes his take on reality.

Not even two hours ago, things had been awkward and laced with ambiguity. Now they’re filthy, kissing in the woods and exchanging I love you’s? It’s a whirlwind change.

“What happened?” he wonders.

Dean understands. "What happened was, we stopped frigging overthinking all this BS.”

Satisfied that things have righted themselves, Cas reaches down to take Dean’s hand. "And this is okay?"

Dean slots his fingers between Cas’. "Don't ask me that every time you want to touch me, it's gonna get _real_ annoying."

"Perhaps I like annoying you."

"Oh, I know you do."

Hands laced together, they walk back towards camp until Dean glances down and decides to detour. It’s amusing to watch Dean move in stealth mode through the trees in his efforts to avoid being caught red-handed. Or more accurately, wet-crotched. Castiel, instead, works his way through tents to put the guns away. He makes small conversation with some of the group that are hanging around.

Peter’s explaining to Sandra that he used to be a truck driver. It’s a piece of information that doesn’t at all surprise Castiel. The man is pleasant enough, he reasons, but not the brightest of humans. Sandra he likes immensely—she’s clear-cut with her opinions and she can handle herself in a fight, even though her former life didn’t ever call for physical violence.

Overall, Castiel genuinely likes many of those they live with, some more than others of course. But as he’s chit-chatting on his way back to meet Dean at their tent, he feels happier than he has in some time.

Scratch that, he’s absolutely elated. Flying.

Back inside the tent, he shuts the zipper and is discouraged with the lack of space. A motel room bed is much more conducive of wide movements. Dean’s laid out on his back in black snug boxers that Cas can tell are not his size. It makes the ridge of his flaccid dick look very prominent. Dean smiles when he notices the focus of Cas’ stare. Tearing his eyes away from Dean’s crotch, he awkwardly bends under the tent roof trying to pry his clothes off. Eventually, Dean reaches up to lend a hand.

“Geez, took you long enough to get back here,” Dean complains, helping him tug his jeans off.

“I was socializing,” he explains.

Dean finds this humorous for some reason, but the laughter stops when he pulls Castiel’s socks off. “Oh my god! Your feet smell awful, dude! Get those nasty things away from me,” teases Dean.

“And what … You smell like roses?” he shoots back, shoving Dean onto the unforgiving ground, straddling him.

From far to the right of them, they hear: “ _Stop flirting and go to bed already!_ ” The voice is Kyle’s, and they can hear Ray sniggering from the same distance.

Castiel shares a quiet laugh with Dean while they finish getting settled. Tomorrow, they hope to find more survivors. Cas is confident they will. Dean, on the other hand, seems reluctant to let himself believe there are others.

It takes some figuring out, but they find a way to zip their sleeping bags together into one giant cocoon. A fabulous idea.

 

A horrible idea, Cas decides three hours later. In the deep black of night, Dean is twisting and turning—as he does when they’re in the woods—and Castiel is losing his fucking mind.

Unable to stand it any longer, he climbs on Dean and presses the man’s shoulders down.

Dean wakes with a sharp inhale. “What, what?” he asks in mild panic, no doubt thinking something’s wrong.

Feeling bold, Cas goes towards Dean’s ear and whispers seductively, “Can I fuck you so hard that you pass out and stop moving, because right now you keep tossing and turning and it’s driving me insane.”

“Jesus Cas!” Dean blurts from below him. “Not exactly subtle, are you?”

Cas groans. “I’m too tired to be subtle.”

An amused laugh leaves Dean. “Let me get this straight, you want to do me in order to tire me out so that I’ll sleep more soundly so that you can sleep soundly? That’s the purpose of this proposition?”

He nods. “Yes.”

“Okay.” Dean shrugs, pretending to be totally on board, but Castiel feels his body stiffen, muscles tensing up, and he wonders if Dean’s ever been on the receiving end of this type of sex.

This worry is what leads him to edge out, “…Or not?”

“Ugh. Stop over-thinking all this crap. It already got us messed up before. Just get naked and fuck me to sleep already!” Dean whispers in a harsh stream, his voice a low murmur in the tent.

They divest their boxers and Cas fumbles in the tent for the bottle of lube they’d acquired along the way, although this is the first time they’ll have used it. Castiel thinks for a second that his first time making love to Dean should be different, should be with candles and music and all the stuff he’d seen once in a few movies in motel rooms long ago. Even the pornographic movie he’d watched once had more romance than this.

But, as it is, they are in a tent in the woods surrounded by survivors of a plague. So there won’t be any of that stuff. Just bodies groping in the dark. Because it’s Dean, Castiel doesn’t care. As long as they are together, the surroundings don’t much matter to him.

He kisses Dean as he works him open with his fingers, remembering how good it had felt when Dean had done the same to him. It’s quick and to the point. One day, away from everyone, he wants to tease Dean until the formidable hunter is begging Castiel to take him apart, but again, that’s not happening tonight.

When he’s positioned over Dean, whose legs are spread and bent up to his chest, he finds the shadow of Dean’s face below him. If only he could make out the expressions there. If only he could see the green in his eyes when he works into Dean, bringing them together.

“I wish it could be better than this,” he apologizes before lining himself up.

Dean captures his face and pulls him close. Their combined breath is hot between them, and the night’s a warm one, both of them already sweating with the promise of sex. This close he can tell Dean is watching him. It’s a minute of hovering there before Dean speaks.

“Cas, I want you, I don’t care how. Slow, fast, in the dark, in a freaking snowstorm. I want you.”

Having sex in a snowstorm is a ridiculous notion, but Dean’s made his point.

Castiel throws his head back when his cockhead presses against the slick entrance. It’s insanely hot and restrictive, and he reaches down to guide himself in. The feel of Dean opening around him, enveloping him snug right down to the base, is so good that he’s shaking. It’s made worse by the way Dean lets out a soft moan of satisfaction.

“Don’t come,” Dean warns, no doubt seeing Cas’ stunned expression.

“My god, that’s-that’s very good.”

Dean wiggles under him, lip curved appreciatively. “Mmm, that feels so weirdly awesome. Get movin’.”

Grabbing Dean by the hips, he says, “Dean, wait—I’m ... in need of a moment.” Cas slows his breathing and tries to calm himself down. Finally, his rigid sex stops kicking with the taunt of an orgasm. The soft chuckle from below mocks him, but he ignores it.

Cas blows out a breath through his mouth and smiles at Dean. “Okay. I think I’m alright now.”

Body tense and hypersensitive, he slides out to the edge and back in. As their hips come flush together, Dean lets out the most sinful provocative sound imaginable.

“I agree,” he says, breathless but elated.

Crowding over Dean’s body, Castiel presses his mouth to Dean’s, savouring the warm, plump feel of his lips and the moist breath escaping in gasps between kisses. He sinks his tongue into the slick space and groans, loving the vibrations of Dean’s chest as the man responds to Cas’ deep kiss with a rough sound of his own.

Drawing back from the kiss, he retreats his hips and ploughs forward, each time smacking against Dean’s ass. The sweat between them makes the sex sound all sorts of funny to him. All this smacking, heavy breathing, and squelching. And then there’s the slippery noises below that his cock makes as it moves inside Dean. Somehow, it all makes everything that much more arousing.

Still, they both try their best to be quiet, even though he would love to hear Dean say dirty things like last time. Lexi was also very verbal during sex. Castiel isn’t sure how he’d fare at that, so he keeps his mouth shut, not wanting to embarrass himself.

Growling as Dean’s body shifts up on the swishy sleeping bag, Cas realizes he needs more leverage if he wants to go faster and harder, so he grabs for Dean’s hands and shoves them back. They hit the wall of the tent and slide down to the ground, covered by a thin layer of nylon.

“Ahh! Fuckin’ tree roots,” Dean hisses, adjusting where their joined hands have landed.

 _Finally_ , Castiel thinks, when they seem to settle into a good position. Curling his fingers between Dean’s, he holds on tight and slams his hips hard, each thrust encasing him in a heated grip from the head of his cock right to the base, over and over, and it’s the best thing he’s ever experienced.

“Dean…” Squeezing his eyes shut, he takes in every nuance of the moment: The sweltering heat that blankets his skin, the heady scent of sex. Dean’s firm body moving under him, abs tensing to take the brunt of his efforts.

Legs bent to his chest the way they are, Cas can tell that Dean is straining in the confines of his cramped position and if they had more room he’d want to put Dean on his hands and knees and continue that way. But even crouched low as he is now, Cas has to duck his head beneath the tent poles.

Gruff curses rise up from Dean’s mouth. “Fuck-fuck-fuck…” Dean keeps saying. When Cas swivels his hips just slightly, the current ‘fuck’ passing Dean’s lips is nothing but warm air framed around the F consonant.

They both get louder the faster his hips move. And with his increased efforts, he prays for a breeze to magically blow through the tent. Sweat has slicked over his entire body and it’s very possible he’ll be severely dehydrated when they’re done. But either way, he'll sleep like he’s never slept before.

Releasing the clutch of Dean’s grip, his knuckles stiff, he reaches down to coax Dean towards orgasm with his hand.

“Cas, _hmmph_ , a little, _fuck_ , a little harder.”

Happy to oblige, he rams against Dean as hard as he can. Jarring enough that he feels the bones in his own hips crush against Dean’s cushioned ass.

Blindsided with pleasure, Dean clamps down around him and it’s so good the air is punched out of his lungs. Castiel shouts involuntarily. Wincing after the fact, knowing that he’s probably woken several people up. But there’s no stopping or slowing down now.

“Oh god, _oh fuck_ , Cas, Cas…” Dean’s set his name on repeat and each time it’s spoken, he pistons into Dean like some animalistic roaring reply.

Perspiration beads and slides over his skin, dripping free as he crashes their bodies together with near savage vigour. Dean’s reaching up for him, yanking him down for a desperate kiss amidst the chaotic motions unfolding between them.

After a biting, sloppy kiss, Cas pulls back and stares down at Dean with every ounce of enflamed passion.

“Dean,” he says in a thick voice, reaching up to sink his pre-come sticky fingers into Dean’s hair and clutch onto him. Sliding out in one swift move, he waits a breath and then snaps his hips forward, eyes closing with the force of pleasure from Dean throbbing and tightening around him.

“Ahh! _Fucuuuck_ , Cas ... mmm, ‘killing me. Don’t s-stop.”

And he doesn’t. Not until they expend of this madness that’s broken out between them.

Being with Dean this way has torn off a layer of his humanity, and it shouldn’t be as incredibly satisfying as it is.

By the end, they’re both yanking at skin and hair, low growls of _harder_ and _don't stop_. Castiel’s wild, unhinged fucking is without apology, and by the way Dean’s swearing and begging for more, it’s clear he wants it no other way.

This is the insanity that he’d always expected to find with Dean.

Reluctantly letting go of his grip on Dean’s thick straight hair, he reaches back down and closes his fingers around the hot weight of Dean’s sex and starts twisting up with a loose fist, his palm ghosting over the shaft.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god…” A harsh shudder rips through Dean, and his ass squeezes around Cas’ aching sex in pulses that make him see flashes of white.

The first wave of Castiel’s orgasm stuns him and in that split-second he loses the capacity to do anything but succumb to the force of it. Dean’s hand flies down to make up for the pause. Riding it out, his body convulsing with each rush, Castiel competes with Dean’s rapid fist to work him to the finish. Their fingers slide over each other, squeezing together, thumbing over the silky head.

Dean comes seconds later, unloading a string of _‘Fucks’_ loud enough to be heard in the next state, dousing them in a healthy release that seems to land everywhere.

Sated and exhausted, they collapse. Inhaling a deep needed breath, Castiel fills his nose with the thick scent of sex, finding that he likes it. Their stupid cocoon of a sleeping bag that’s now ripped half-open is damp with sweat and smears of come, but it could be worse.

Sliding off of Dean, low sated moans emanating from his chest, Cas curls against the ground, one leg on top of the sleeping bag, one inside. He doesn’t bother to cover himself beyond that. The cool air drifting across his over-heated skin is better than food.

Dean falls asleep on his back with his legs sprawled over the sleeping bag. He doesn’t move again the rest of the night, and even though his snoring is a low rumble in the tent, they both manage to sleep heavy until mid-morning.

Everyone else, however, does not.


	30. Chapter 30

_Sore_. That’s the first thing Dean is aware of when he wakes. His back, his ass, his knuckles for some reason. And his neck.

I’m such an old man, he thinks to himself. But it was totally worth it. Sure, both of them would have loved for things to have been more, dare he say, romantic? But with the shit they’ve been through, he’s just grateful he has someone that loves him and wants to fuck him to sleep at night.

And fuck him damn good at that. That someone has turned out to be his best friend. He’s a lucky bastard.

“You awake?” Cas stretches out beside him.

“Yeah, sleep good finally?”

Cas grins, all super-duper happy. “Yes, I did.”

“Glad I could be of service,” Dean cheekily replies. “How many people you think we pissed off last night?”

“ _All of us!_ ” A chorus of angry voices ring over to them.

They both turn red and Dean covers them with the sex-scented sleeping bag. He leans towards Cas and whispers, “Let’s just stay in here all day.”

The former angel sniggers. “That would be great, but I have to pee and I’m hungry.”

“Stupid demanding frail human bodies, huh?”

“Yes!” spouts Cas with an unnecessary level of intensity. “Exactly! Urinating is such a nuisance.”

Dean can feel his brows furrow. “You are _so_ weird sometimes.”

Cas glares at him and somehow they end up kissing, only cutting the action short when Sandra taps in a _vvrrp, vvvrp_ against the tent. “We’re all happy for your new found love and everything, but the world doesn’t stop for it, so get out here and do some chores.”

“Yes, Mom,” Dean whines.

They shuffle around in the small tent to get dressed and when they finally come out, people are avoiding looking at them. Dean’s slightly mortified at what people might have heard—the group of tents _are_ spread out, but in the dead of woods at night, voices carry. No doubt moans and grunts do as well. And then there’s the whole hips smacking ass symphony that no doubt passes effortlessly through the trees.

An hour later, he and Cas are making lunch for everyone—apparent punishment for waking the whole camp up—when Sam comes over and slaps Dean on the back.

“ _’Fuck, yeah, harder_ ’ is a sentence I really don’t want to hear from my brother ever again. Especially,” Sam lowers his voice, “when I am also getting laid.” Swinging his arm around, Sam throws down a decent sized snake and shrugs, “Food’s food, right?”

Dean’s lip curls into a smirk before he chuckles. “Sorry bro.” Grateful for some fresh meat of sorts, Dean takes the thing and the knife Sam’s got and starts skinning it.

“Just, next town, we’re all busting into a Best Buy or something and stocking up on noise-cancelling headphones.”

“Agreed,” he, Cas, and several others say at once.

It’s a surprisingly gleeful morning, soup cooking with some roasted rabbit snagged by Josh, of course. A little side of snake to top things off. It may not be world-class and high-end by some standards, but for them? It’s a fucking spectacular lunch-dinner combo.

Having relayed to Sam that he and Cas came across zero prints the day before, they walk blind that afternoon to search out survivors. Staying in a group is generally the preference for most things, but when looking out for signs of life, it isn't very effective, so they split up to cover more ground.

“Cas? Comin’ with?” Dean calls over.

Nearby, Lexi and Sandra trade a look. “Do you guys actually plan on tracking anything?”

“Of course. How dare you question our resolve and dedication to finding survivors.”

Even Cas is giving him the eye roll. “I’ll keep Dean on track.”

That sounds like an excellent challenge.

Turns out, Cas is easier to wear down than he thought. Only forty minutes into their supposed search, he’s already got Cas backed up against a tree and giving his lips and hips and workout.

“Dean—“ Cas interrupts, panting adorably.

Barely stopping his motions, Dean throws back a responsive moan.

“But … survivors,” mutters Cas.

Shutting him up, Dean takes control of that protesting mouth, working his tongue in and encouraging Cas to forget about their current way of life. Just let us have every moment we can, he begs silently.

Groping in between their bodies, he shapes his palm against the hard ridge in Cas’ jeans, doing his best to make his man feel good. Too many years of what could’ve been were stolen from them and he’s gonna be making up for his idiocy as best he can.

It’s obvious when Cas gives up trying to fend him off.

Without warning, a rough hand cups the back of his head and pulls him closer. Dean growls into the action, the vibrations in his throat muffled by Cas’ lips sealed over his. Shoving him back from their heated connection, Cas looks him over with a black stare.

Despite his jeans and long-sleeve Henley, he feels really damn naked when Cas settles a hungry stare on him that way.

“Dean. Strip.”

Yes, sir. Anticipation has him scrambling to free himself of unwanted fabric. And when he’s done, he looks down and smirks at the way his thick socks are poking up over his boots, the rest of him bare and … excited.

“Better?” he asks.

“Much.” Cas walks towards him and tugs his t-shirt over his head, pants getting dropped to his ankles.

They haven’t exactly worked out a smooth rhythm of who’s doing what and when. Dean decides to be bold about it: “How do you want me?”

“Endless ways. But for now, I think I would love it if you were on your hands and knees.”

Forgetting the English language entirely, Dean groans.

Every muscle seems to quiver with expectation as he drops to his knees. Cas follows suit and grabs him by the shoulders and spins him around, pushing down on his back to make his fantasy a reality.

“I hope we’re not attacked during this.”

To put Cas at ease, Dean reaches out and snags the nylon strap of the shotgun and drags it under him, one hand closing around the barrel. Bracing the butt of it against his knee, he pumps the barrel to load a round.

“There. Ready to fire.”

Cas stops caressing his skin to say, “I really hope you don’t accidentally shoot yourself. Or me.”

“What in the hell, Cas? You think I’m some kind of amateur?”

Two strong hands palm his ass cheeks and squeeze. “Not in the greater sense. But maybe in this.”

Seems like Cas is trying to ask him something. Dean wondered last night if Cas had seen the hesitation on his face.

“You want to ask me something Cas, just ask.”

“Was I the first?”

Dean sighs, realizing that having this conversation in their current position is not exactly how things should go. Pushing up to his knees, twisting at the waist, he captures Cas’ face between his dirty palms and leans in for a soft kiss.

“Yes.”

The guy fucking beams, blue eyes lighting up with proprietary arrogance. It’s nice that Cas can have that. Not one to regret the slutty life he’s lived, a part of him wishes Cas had gotten all his firsts.

“Hate to break it to you,” he continues, “but that was the last unmarked box on my activity list.”

“Well,” Cas grins, “I’m glad I got to … check it off for you.”

Dean laughs and gets back in position. “Stop smirking back there and get to work before someone finds us this way.”

Not bothering to give a reply, Castiel makes some noises behind him. That unmistakable sound of a cap being flicked open, the subtle smacking of a slick hand over an erection, and finally, the touch that follows.

Even though last night lingers on him, his joints sore from locking up, his ass tender, there’s no chance in hell he’s redlighting things.

Rubbing up the expanse of his back, Castiel guides him lower to the ground and as his ass shoves back towards Cas’ hips a teasing, single finger penetrates him.

Oh hell no with the slow. Like, he’s sore, but not some delicate flower here.

“Cas!” he whines, getting the idea that his— _gasp_ —boyfriend is worried about working him over too much too soon.

Turns out, Dean doesn’t get much say in the matter and since Cas decides to take things slow and tortuous, that’s how it is.

Guess he’ll have to suffer through it. How terrible for him.

 

Sated an hour later, Dean rests on the rumpled clothes they left lying on the damp ground.

“I’m dead,” he groans.

“I’m still shaking,” adds Cas, angling his head to grin at him. The expression is loose and happy. One hundred percent at ease, and Dean’s damn proud that he put that there.

“Since we’re doing such an excellent job of shirking our duties, want to continue being bad with me and take a quick swim?”

Cas cranes his head back, his hair rubbing against the leaves and dirt. “As much as I want to find others, I agree that we desperately need to clean up.”

“Yeah, I think there’s come in my belly button. And you have like a forest nested into your hair.”

Laughing, they ease up from the ground and casually check out each other’s shameless condition. Dean hangs their clothes on a nearby branch and heads towards the small lake they stopped near. It’s weedy and less than ideal. But they’re alone and he can put up with some slimy plants on Cas’ behalf.

Flopping onto the shallow surface, the cold water splashes around him and Dean dives under towards the greater depths a few feet out. When he resurfaces, Cas is standing waist deep with a bizarre expression. Frozen and cautious.

“What?”

“Something grazed my leg, Dean.”

“Ooh, probably an eel. Gross.”

“Well it’s gone now. Probably headed your way.” Cas’ eyes narrow and shoots Dean a sardonic grin.

“If that’s the case … you know … you were my guardian angel. Get over here and guard me.”

Cas crashes into the water up to his neck and paddles over. Just as he’s moving in close, he sinks below the surface and Dean smiles, wondering where on his body something will graze him. Cause it sure as hell won’t be an eel.

Sure enough, a familiar touch slides up the inside of his leg, cups his balls, and gives his flaccid cock an appreciate stroke.

The warped beige shape in front of his chest is disrupted when Cas surges out of the water, arms latching around his waist to draw him in for a kiss.

Dean can tell it was meant to be innocent, in the way it began. But the tempo quickens and some splashing around happens and when they run out of breath and come close to drowning, Dean decides to put some space between them.

“I like this,” Cas beams. “Everything is … amazing.”

Dean groans and gives him a light punch on the shoulder. “Du- _ude_. That’s like the worst thing to say. Now you’ve taunted that bitch Fate.”

“I’m certain she’s dead so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Fine, but if something bad happens—it’s on you.”

Cas nods, but doesn’t seem to harbor a care in the world. Part of Dean is thrilled. Part of him is going, ‘Dammit. Somethin’ bad is gonna happen.’

After they do the best cleanup job possible without a bar of soap, they climb back up onto the shore, their wet feet attracting dirt like white on rice.

Once their clothes are back on, Dean orders Cas to fist bump the tree just in case and then they make their way back to camp.


	31. Chapter 31

"I swear to the almighty above, if you two so much as flicker another look in each other's direction one more time I'm booting you both in the arse!" Sandra scolds.

Yesterday was a complete write-off. So today, Sam has forced Sandra to tag along with he and Cas, hoping it would stop them from getting sidetracked. There’s been no sex, but there’s been a shitton of eyefucking.

Dean bows his head exasperatedly. "Sandra! We're not even doing anything!"

"Bullshit, Dean," she replies dully. Cas sniggers beside him and Dean swats his chest to get him to shut up. Not exactly helping our subtlety, man. Eyefuck me on the down-low, he wants to say.

They've come across no other tracks other than deer and wolves here. Three hours deep and they need to alter course west. His familiarity with these woods might be massively dated, but the boundaries have got to be roughly the same, and if he's got his bearings right, then there isn't much more north the way they're going.

The woods have begun to dwindle down to spindly baby trees and clumps of wildflowers. Changing direction, the two with him follow quietly, the density of the woods thickening back to normal. It's not forty minutes later when Cas says he needs to use the washroom and heads off into the woods away from them.

"Listen sweetie,” Sandra begins, “Sorry to be on your case about this whole thing. I'm just trying to keep you focused." The maternal woman moves to sit down on a partial rock poking up through the earth in a round curve.

"I know. I get it."

"Don't misunderstand, I'm happy for you. From what Sam's told me, you deserve it. I may not know you well, Dean, but I've never seen you so happy."

He blushes. "Uh, thanks."

With some momentary free time, he checks his weapons, and takes a couple steps around a thick tree to unzip and take a piss. Approximately ten minutes later, when he and Sandra remain sitting quietly waiting for Cas, he starts to count the time passing.

"He normally take this long?" asks Sandra, concerned eyes meeting his.

Ignoring the tightness suddenly twisting knots in his gut, he looks over at her. "No."

In silent agreement, they both start following Cas' tracks. The thick humidity of the woods, the chorus of minute sounds emitting from small creatures, is all together broken when Dean hears Cas scream. Not just a holler for help, but a legit scream; the kind you can’t control, the kind that rips from your throat when you suffer pain so intense, so consuming, that you simply want to die.

Dean’s blood turns to ice.

Only a fraction of a second separates the moment he hears it from when his feet start moving. Sandra’s chasing his heels a couple feet back. Their combined thrashing through the woods is loud and he hopes they’re heard. Thank god, Sandra’s yelling for help. His own voice lost to fear.

There's more yelling, but it’s strained and roughened in a way that makes his heart beat erratically. In the background, he can just make out a low screeching that he doesn't understand. It's too many noises to figure out, but he doesn’t stop running, and when he flings through a break in the trees to land on both feet after leaping across two wide roots, he's shocked.

He absorbs the scene in a single breath.

On the far left, crumpled, is a man with an arrow sticking proud of his head like a gruesome antenna marking his death. Just beyond the man is a twisted body—a downed infected, he’s sure. Cas is on the ground, another infected bent over his thigh from the side ... chewing.

His first thought that second is why the fuck isn't Cas doing anything? What the hell is he holding in his arms?

Questions aside, the whole thing speeds through his awareness in that first breath getting there, and in no time at all, he's ripping the infected from Cas' body, hearing the goddamn love of his life scream as his flesh is torn off in the teeth of the thing Dean is throwing to the ground.

The knife’s in his hands with no memory of having gone for it, but he's quick, puncturing through bone in a swift move. He expects silence to follow, but there's so much goddamn noise.

Rounding back to the scene behind him, another infected is lumbering through the woods to get to them but Sandra is on it, and thank fuck, because he needs to get to Cas like fucking yesterday. Swallowing dry, Dean’s eyes track the thick rivulets of deep red seeping towards the earth, pooling over the hard-packed dirt.

Dean’s yelling at Cas, but the man is losing his mind or something, saying, "Take her!"

"What?!" shouts Dean, his hands going to Cas' leg, not paying attention to anything else other than stopping blood.

"Dean! Take the baby!"

That brings everything to a jarring halt. Dean’s hands are slippery with blood, but he reaches over, dumbfounded to realize the screeching and all the noise he's hearing is the wailing of an infant.

What the mother-fuck is a fucking baby doing in the fucking woods?!

Thankfully, Cas reaches down to cradle his own leg, even though Dean can see it’s a struggle for him. Dean's got the infant girl in his arms, or he assumes it’s a girl; the blanket around her is pink—of course, perhaps it had been washed with blood. Who knows.

A thunderous rumble vibrates from the ground up through his knees. It's the feel of many feet hitting the earth at once, running in their direction. He prays that it's Sam and the others.

"Dean, give her to me." Sandra’s at his shoulder, nudging him into compliance.

He offers the kid up and goes back to Cas, whose hands have gone limp. The terror has made his heart heavy and laboured, straining with each beat, but he asks, "Cas, before you found Sam and I, please tell me you made yourself immune to this shit."

The man he loves is in too much pain to answer. Dean slaps him hard and yells, "A _NSWER ME, GODDAMMIT_!"

"Yes, yes," Cas mutters, "but it won't-won’t stop the bleeding."

Sinking to the ground, he replies, "I know, I know." His tone is helpless, lacking conviction that would have come with having a means to stop the bleed. Through this conversation, he's gotten his shirt off and is pressing it to the wound. The baby has stopped crying and the thunder is getting closer.

"Dean!" he hears. "Dean!"

"We're here, Sam," he answers weakly, knowing his voice doesn’t carry.

In the meantime, he watches Cas' eyes drift shut and hopes it's not forever. His little brother bursts through the trees like a damn animal.

"Oh my god, what happened?!" Sam's voice is loud as he rushes over beside Dean, taking a moment to glance at the baby in Sandra's arms, triggering the expected shock of such a sight.

"Need to stop the bleeding, Sam."

"Yeah, okay, uh..." Looking behind himself, more of their group slips in through the trees. Lexi is one of the first, her gun in hand. Both Sam and Dean bark at her to make a fire.

It'll be soon, it'll be okay. "Hey." Dean shakes Cas with his free hand. The former angel's thick lips move, but that's it. Sorry about this—Dean backhands him, not too hard, but enough to drag him back from unconsciousness.

" _Nngh_ ... fuck," Cas groans, his face is white and glistening with sweat. It looks bad.

"I know, it hurts like a motherfucker. Listen, you trust me, right?"

"Yes, Dean."

Sam's eyes bounce between them. He knows what's coming and Dean can see Sam gesture to Lexi behind him.

"You still gonna love me after this?" Dean jokes, stroking Cas' face, smearing it with blood.

"Just fuck-ing ... do it ... already."

There's a really, _really_ excessive amount of blood. It's on Dean's knees, his jeans stained with it. "You stupid, stupid selfless piece of shit," he says.

“My fault, remember?” Cas smiles weakly at him. Their swim in the lake yesterday comes into mind and Dean shakes his head, wondering how things could’ve turned around on them so fast.

"Here! What about this?" asks Lexi.

A thick gurgle of vomit rides up his esophagus when he looks back and sees what she’s holding, "Umm, yeah, that'll—that'll do."

"Oh fuck." Sam's eyes widen in understanding. "Dean, I can do it. _Really_." Those big hands are already reaching across Cas' body to take the hunter green container.

Shaking his head, Dean lights the torch of the mini-propane canister with the metal sparker. "I'm fine."

 _Please pass out, please pass out,_ he chants to himself.

Directing the blue flame downwards, the ear-splitting sound of Cas screaming makes him cringe. In hell, he'd heard a lot of these kind of screams, but knowing it's Cas, and that he's causing it, will stay with him forever.

It's a blessing when the angel passes out, if not a new aspect of terrifying on its own.

Thanks to his evil past, Dean knows how long, exactly where, and how close to do this until he's sure the bleed is cauterized. The smell of burnt flesh is hot and sharp in his nose, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to hurl. He hopes for calm when he lowers the torch, flicking the flame out with a turn of the dial, but he just ain't that damn lucky.

"Dean!" Sam yells, "More coming!" His brother leaps up and is racing to collide with a march of infected heading this way. Everyone is scrambling around him. They're not even in a decent clearing, there's no good vantage points.

Goddammit, he's vulnerable like this.

"I can't move him!" Dean hollers, and thinks ' _Fuck this_!' He yanks a gun out from the holster on his leg and starts popping off rounds into heads that break through the trees. The sound is unfortunate, but it’s the only way he can help.

The _sshhh, sshhh_ of rustling behind him forces him to swivel from his crouch on the balls of his feet. Two infected are set on them, dragging their legs forward in uncoordinated steps. He squeezes the trigger; one goes down.

Ray makes a sudden appearance, her sword slicing in a fell swoop through the neck of the other, before she's gone again, hollering to Kyle.

In a blur from back the other side, Sandra races over, skidding in the dirt getting down low to him, "Here, here!!" She practically tosses the screaming infant into his arms.

"Holy fuck!" says Dean, rubbing a hand over his face, the baby in the crook of his elbow. With his free hand, he fires a shot straight in front of him, watching the fugly thing swing down like an unbalanced teeter-totter to the ground, its face crunching into the dirt, where it stays motionless not three feet away.

The symphony of combat surrounds him in a chaotic mix of grunts, screams, gunshots, and that squelchy unmistakable sound of a skull being crushed.

And here he is, in the dirt, covered in blood, with Cas' body limp and burnt in front of him. The freaking infant is wailing, sobbing nonstop, its breaths hitching as it tries to pull in some oxygen between shrieks.

Dean glances down at her and thinks, ‘ _Me too, kid, me too’_ , rocking her in a pathetic attempt to calm them both.


	32. Chapter 32

When Castiel slithers into consciousness, he's overcome with pain—a deep throb that takes his breath away. "Oh, being human is awful," moans Cas, trying to shift free of discomfort, but the pain follows his every breath.

He's lying on his back in a tent, the yellow and orange nylon over his head is hard to see, it’s dark and he's not sure where he is.

Dean speaks then, "Thank God!"

Almost immediately, Castiel feels the press of warm lips against his cheek, but he can’t muster the energy to turn towards Dean. He's woozy, and heavy. It feels as if there’s been lead added to every one of his limbs. He doesn’t care for the sensation.

"I don't believe we have God to thank for anything. Though I'd be fine with cursing him to hell for making humans so pathetically fragile. Why am I so heavy?"

The laughter that bubbles from Dean is more relieved than amused. "Your energy’ll come back. But you're alive and trust me, that's a fucking miracle, so I don’t care if it's God or a frigging rabbit’s foot, I'm thanking whatever."

"What happened?"

"You don’t remember?"

Laboriously, he digs through his thoughts, to see what he can recall. "The baby," he stammers, "is she okay?"

Dean's hand reaches for his face and guides his head to the side and just barely, Castiel can see a bundle curved against Dean's chest. But better than knowing the baby is safe, is seeing Dean's face. It’s dirty and smeared with dried blood, but it's the most beautiful thing he's ever cast his eyes on.

"You're beautiful," he says honestly.

Dean chuckles. "I bet. Maybe you should rest some more. I think you've gone nutty."

Hmm, sleep does sound good. The throbbing is difficult to ignore though and he can't imagine trying to sleep through it. His left thigh, from his knee to his hip feels like it’s on fire, and the muscle feels knotted in the most unnatural way, flashing with spikes of pain from every breath he takes.

"We have any pain meds?" he asks.

"Already shot you up with some. It was expired though, I'll get more." Getting up gently, Dean lifts the bundle and settles her into his sleeping bag, cradled by a pile of Dean's clothes on one side, and a pile of Cas' on the other.

The tent is unzipped and Dean’s gone through the slit, closing it behind him.

Castiel can hear the murmur of voices, but his focus is in and out. He views the baby from the corner of his eye, watching her, making sure she's safe. Very softly, if he holds still and lessens his own whimpers of agony, he can hear her breathing. Even breaths that match the rise and fall of her tiny chest, the flow of air punctuated every so often by a little huff, or a sigh.

Dean returns moments later. "Since you’re awake, we'll load you up with a bunch of shit. Trust me, I've done this before. Okay, two extra-strength Aleves, and two Tylenol Threes, and I've got a shot of antibiotics too. Our supplies are getting low again; I wish I had more to give you."

"It’s enough." The pills are placed in his hand and he swallows them down with Dean's help, easing his head off the ground and putting a bottle of water to his lips. After that, Dean uncaps a needle and shoves his t-shirt sleeve further up his shoulder. The jab is quick and he barely notices over the other sensations in his body.

Lifting the baby, Dean shifts into a cross-legged position so that he can watch Cas intensely and hold the child at the same time.

"You're hovering," he notes.

"Obviously."

"Where's everyone?" he slurs, feeling thick. There's no other word, he feels too big and heavy, viscous like lava.

"Umm, a few got hurt. It's fine, but people aren’t in the best of spirits, and it’s late." In the silence, Dean tries to read him. He knows the look.

"What?" he asks.

"I gotta ask… What happened? What was with the guy who got Green Arrow'd?"

The memories are muddied, but he sifts through what he knows and then tries to tell Dean even though he can feel consciousness losing its hold on him. "Heard crying, umm, found the guy on th’ground, arms, ‘n the baby ... infected, two, two, um two."

For a moment, everything goes splotchy black, but he feels Dean's hand on his arm and he somewhat resurfaces, but everything's indistinct and sideways. "Got, mm, one? Maybe ... Didn't see th'other, knocked mm'down. Loss tha ... kniiiife, couldmmn't let go'v'her."

The heat of Dean's palm passes over his eyes and he's out.

⊢≬⊣

Geez, poor Cas really lost it there. Dean frigging hopes it's the drugs. Cas' lips barely moved as he spoke. Nevertheless, he gets the picture.

The question is, who shot the arrow? Knowing Cas is safe and asleep, he heads back out, needing to talk things over with Sam. They may not have found any survivors, but it sure as hell seems some might find them. And if they're the kind that take out dads carrying babies, well Dean's gonna revisit some skills honed in the underworld, that's for damn sure.

The baby’s nestled in his arms, sleeping heavily. Poor kid's been through way too much already. Sam is sitting on the ground, Kate curled between his legs and leaning on his chest—she might be asleep. His brother's long arms are looped around her tight. Others of the group, Josh, Matty, Ray, Kyle, Sandra, Peter and a few others, are idle around the fire—which is small after what happened. They don’t want to attract attention.

Following the fight, it was unclear whether more would come, and Sam rushed back to him after the immediate threat and helped Dean carry Castiel and the kid for several miles before they felt safe enough to stop.

It was likely no one would get much rest tonight, save for Cas and the baby probably.

"How is she?" Sandra asks, her hair is, for once, matted to her head instead of her usual spiky ‘do. It makes her look so much older.

Glancing down, he replies, "She's okay, I think. Seems healthy."

"What the hell happened?" demands Josh in a firm voice. The guy’s just as unnerved as Dean and Sam are. Some of the others haven't quite clued in that an uninfected dude with an arrow in his head isn’t exactly a good thing. Especially considering he’d no doubt been holding that baby.

Dean exhales, looking over at Sam, who meets his eyes, sharing the same apprehension. But it’s Dean who relays the story. "Cas heard crying and found a man dead on the ground, an arrow stuck in his brain, holding on to the baby, with an infected moving in to chow down. Cas went for the infected, managed to take it down when another came after him as he was grabbing the kid. They all went down, Cas got bit ... And then a herd must’ve caught wind of it all and moved in for us."

Josh hasn't calmed the harshness of his features, he leans forward, the fire lighting his face to look menacing as he says, "And perhaps we should be concerned, just _maybe_ , that someone in these woods is firing arrows into the skulls of live men with babies, you think?"

"It's not raiders," Sam looks around at the others. "I know their style. I've seen the way they hunt, fight, steal. This isn't them. At least it doesn’t feel that way to me."

Dean agrees. "No, you’re right, I don't know what that was either but it wasn’t raiders. Maybe the guy was gonna turn?" he suggests.

A familiar sigh blows out of Ray. "And leave the kid?"

Shrugging, he argues back, "Maybe they didn't see the baby?"

"They would'a heard her though, she's a wailer." Lexi adds, smiling like she approves. No doubt she does.

"It's true," he admits. "I don’t fuckin’ get it. I don’t know what happened, but something’s off."

They talk for a while longer, not getting anywhere other than concluding that a bunch of them are staying up all night to keep watch. This world is too volatile, too uncertain to resign to hope.

It's decided, though it isn’t said outright, that Dean's gone through too much that day, and told to go to sleep. It’s the last thing from his mind however; too keyed up to find rest yet. So he stays up with a few others: Sammy, Kate snuggled up against his little brother, and Peter, Sandra, Matty, and three others he doesn't speak to much: An older man, maybe mid-sixties, quiet, calls himself Doug, never gave a last name; a younger teen, middle-eastern boy, Mirza, that lost his whole family to the disease. He spends every minute with the woman to Dean's left, Jess—a Korean woman of probably Dean's age that has alluded to being in the army. The two have taken to each other for whatever reasons. The nuances of personality that draw two people together for a variety of reasons. Familiarity, comfort, love, sex, companionship—probably not sex in this case though—seeing as how the boy is about twelve to her thirty or so. She's apparently filled in the role of mother for him, and Dean wonders, looking down at the little girl of six months about, if he'll be sliding into a parental role as well.

It's downright terrifying.

Doug is picking away at a granola bar when he pauses and looks pointedly at Dean, and then Sam. "I've heard some of the stories since I've been with this group, but I gotta ask, how did it all start? And I'm not meaning the plague, I mean the monsters and evil you guys all talk about, and your, umm, your friend“—he uncomfortably eyes Dean—"was he really an angel? And how old is he?"

Dean blinks in slow succession. _Don't shoot the homophobic simpleton._

The man is rotund, but less so with each week of slim pickens. As it is, there's only a medium-size dome stretching out from his torso. His uneven beard is red with specks of gray, and his hair’s mostly receded back. Dean can see the curiosity in his shifting eyes, his wonder, and even that layer of dread embedded deep—the long ago forgotten fear of the night.

Sam's the first to speak, "Like where evil began? ‘Cause honestly, I don't know, Doug. For Christianity, it would be the fall of Lucifer I guess—“

"Huh, and you guys? How did you get into this life? How do other hunters, and how did that raider know you?" he asks, focus intent on Dean.

The tension fills the air like smoke. He's sure everyone can feel it. Sam shifts and clears his throat.

"It's a long story," Dean supplies.

"We have time,” reasons Peter.

The others seem to get the idea he and Sam don't want to talk about it but they're all too curious to say anything.

Ultimately, Sam surrenders. "Pete, it's just, it was a long time ago, and it's hard for Dean and I to talk about it. The life we have now, you might be surprised, but it's actually better than we've ever had it before. Not that today is a great example obviously, but generally, it holds true."

Dean's shocked at first, but then it dawns on him how right Sam is. He's pleasantly surprised. "Crap, you’re right."

"Insane, huh?" Sam nods with enthusiastic agreement.

"I’d like to hear the story. I ain't never seen a fighter like the two of you." Matty mentions, shrugging as if to say, could it really be that bad to tell us?

Everyone leans forward ever so slightly. Dean cradles the infant to his chest, feeling her shift against him as she sleeps.

They agree with a look, and Sam starts off, explaining how their family goes way back into hunting, and how their mom made a deal with yellow eyes to save their dad before either of them were born. But when Sammy gets to that night, the night he wouldn't remember anyhow, he clams up, the thought of mom's death too much for the kid.

Dean picks it up from there, "I heard my dad call for me, I was four, and went running into Sammy's room." He has to pause then, because the image is still in his head, he can still remember, still see, still smell. "Our mom, uh, was on the, uh, the ceiling ... burning." There's silence after he gets that out, and they all let him compose himself in silence. "Dad passed me Sammy and told me to get out. I did. And uh," he clears his throat, "after that, Dad hunted, dragged us with him. He went after the demon that killed our mom, but took out anything else evil he found along the way. We grew up all over the country. Hunting things, taking out the monsters that no one knows about.”

"Did your dad ever find the demon?" Sandra asks.

"Eventually."

"And what happened?"

Sam turns to Dean, the hurt still there after all this time. "Our dad gave his life for Dean's, made a deal with the demon that killed our mom. Um, not long after that, we got the means to kill him, a gun made by Samuel Colt himself, and Dean took him out."

"What had happened to you? Why’d your dad have to give his life for you?" the old man asks Dean, skepticism denting his hideous thick red eyebrows. No doubt the guy thinks they’re all fucking nuts.

"I was dying."

"And you let your dad give up his life for _you_?" Doug wonders. It’s clear that Doug is not a fan of Dean Winchester. Well ‘ _Fuck You_ ’ right back, Dean wants to say but manages to keep his mouth shut.

"Hey, look," Sam grits out. "If we'd have known our dad was signing a deal, we'd have stopped him."

"Deals with demons? Sounds all like a crock to me."

"You know, I've had about enough of you." Dean starts, hearing Sam clip off his name, calling him to heal. "You saw the werewolves before, didn’t you? Or are you just willfully retarded?"

"I saw humans with facial hair and sharp teeth—big fuckin’ whoop. And I see some fucked up science experiments walking around. But you're all telling me that the world has been full of monsters since the dawn of time. How am I supposed to believe that crock? People would have noticed that kind of thing. I'm almost seventy years old and I've never seen a creature in my life."

 _And that's that_! Dean tacks on. Seventy years old and already past his expiration date in Dean’s opinion.

"Yeah, that's ‘cause people like Sam, people like me, and Ray, and others, have been keeping this freakin' place safe for your hemorrhoid-ridden, lazy ass. How about a little thanks, huh?"

“You’re both nothin’ more than fear mongers. I know the type.”

Ray cuts in now, “How the hell do you explain all the other shit you’ve seen since the infection took over?”

“People just gone crazy,” the guys sums up. So fucking oblivious.

“Oh c’mon, you can’t be serious?!” Kate chimes. Sam wraps an arm tighter around her.

Other voices rise up and Doug cuts them off, his shoulders squaring off. “This whole damn thing’s got you all losing your minds. I’ve been on this earth way the hell longer than all of you and I know what’s what.”

Dean loses it. “My god, you’re just a couple of IQ points away from not being able to breathe on your own, aren’t ya?”

“—Dean!”

“Fuck you. You’re the one who’s got something wrong with his brain, letting another man put his—“

Sandra shuts Doug up with a backhand before he can finish that sentence. Which is wise, because if he had, Dean would’ve unloaded a few rounds of the shotgun into his face. Probably would have improved his ugly mug.

Sandra stands and glares at both of them. "Everyone dial it down. Doug, I suggest you walk off before Dean kills you."

When Doug’s dull grayish-brown eyes meet his, Dean smiles. Damn right, dickbag.

Bitching the whole way to his tent, muttering shit about how there’s no way he’d believe an angel’s gay, Doug disappears from his sight.

The group falls apart after that. Matty smiles feebly to Dean, his big frame walking off. The rest mumbling a comment about Doug's behaviour before going to keep watch or rest. Sandra is one of the last to go besides his brother and Kate, she leans down and kisses his cheek. “Don’t worry about him sweetie, he’s a prick.”

“Guess I don’t have to worry, what with you all stepping up to drop him down a peg. Good backhand you got there.”

Sandra pats his head and then brushes a finger over the baby’s soft cheek. “Good night, you two.”

Dean has a half a mind to say ‘ _Goodnight Mom_ ’, but instead he smiles warmly at her and thinks she knows just how much he appreciates her.

After that, the last stragglers around the dwindling fire are Dean, the baby, Sammy and Kate.

"Well, I didn’t expect _that_ tonight," says Dean.

Kate smiles sleepily, long lashes fluttering against her broad rosy cheek as she tries to stay awake. Stray knotted curls wrap around the outside of the oversized hoodie she’s wearing. "He's a douche, don't let it get to you. You can't have expected all survivors to be perfect like the rest of us.”

The girl’s got a point. "Wise, you are," he speaks in Yoda voice, getting the laugh out of her he'd been striving for. Sam chuckles too, adding, "Shit, Yoda? Can't remember the last time you went Star Wars on me."

"Well, Sammy, you are, generally, more nerd than I."

"Sure, Dean. Whatever you say."

Dean smiles, an unexpected joy warming him as he shifts the girl to get up. He pauses before he walks back to his tent. "She'll need a name."

"What was your mother's name?" asks Kate, arching back to look at Sam.

"Mary," they say together.

Kate seems amused by this. "The first infant I've seen in forever, barely six months old, survived an attack, and doesn't have a mark on her—I think Mary is perfect."

Sam snorts, wrapping his arms tighter around his woman. "Katie, after all the stories you've heard, you know Dean and I aren't all that religious despite what we’ve seen."

"I know. But this isn't about old religion. This is about faith in life, in hope for the future, let's give the image of hope from the past a new meaning, a new definition."

"Actually," Dean considers, smiling to his brother and Kate, "I kinda think we should call her Hope."

"I like it." Sam tips his chin down, a big grin on his face.

"Well then it’s settled, go to take Hope to that Angel of yours."

"And never were wiser words spoken. You two have a good night."

"Night Dean," they say together, seeing him off with a wave.

Only a few feet from the fire Dean turns back and watches his brother brush a hand back over Kate’s head, sliding the hoodie off and leaning down to kiss the crown of her head. Walking away a second later, he dimly catches Sammy tell the girl that he loves her.

“Good for you, man, good for you,” Dean whispers into the dark woods, heading towards the orange and yellow tent.    

When he climbs in through the wide slit, careful not to jostle Hope, he can still feel the subtle lift at the corners of his mouth, amazed that he can still manage to be happy in all of this. Laying down next to Cas, who is, _thankfully_ , still sleeping good and solid, he lays Hope carefully between them. She takes a deep breath, makes a little noise, and sticks her thumb in her mouth and starts sucking, but she doesn't wake.

 _Hope_.

Now there's something to believe in.


	33. Chapter 33

The following morning, Castiel wakes with less discomfort than before. He's still in a significant amount of pain, but it's tolerable. Of course he's died several times, been tortured also, so his pain tolerance is high.

He wishes Dean had laid him on the other side of the tent, then he could easily roll over to see Dean, but where he is now, if he rolls over, he'll end up on the damaged thigh and that would be too painful, he's sure. He strains his neck to the side, and the image is one he'd never expected in all his life, at least not this version of it.

Dean’s curled on his side, mouth open and drooling, the infant girl cocooned in the frame of his body, his arms in arcs around her as if protecting her from every direction at once. The little one is awake, eyes searching, kicking her feet though Dean doesn't stir.

"Hello."

The girl looks at him and freezes, her face going still, and then she smiles all gummy and starts kicking her feet in earnest, making a repeated noise consisting of b's and v's: _bbvvv_ , _bbvvv, bbvvv_. It's very endearing, he finds.

"Kick him some more and he might wake up."

She giggles this bubble of sound that brings light into Castiel's heart, warming him better than grace. Dean slowly opens his eyes, his mouth closing with a swallow.

" _Hmph_ , you're awake." Dean observes, eyes bleary, a white crusty line of drool in the corner of his lips. Despite that, Castiel is fixated on his breathtaking, sleep-ruddy face.

"Yes, and so is our little friend."

The infant kicks her feet and then brings them up in the air, grabbing them with her plump little hands. She's wearing a full-piece pajama thing that Cas has noticed before most babies tend to be dressed in. This one is cream-coloured with purple trim, and across the front is an embroidered cluster of colourful balloons.

"Hope," says Dean, meeting his eyes.

"What about it?"

"That's her name. We had to give her a name, so, yeah ... _Hope_." The uncertainty in Dean's shifting focus confuses him, but if Dean’s worried about Castiel's reaction to the name, he needn't.

"Seems perfect."

"Yeah?"

"Absolutely."

 

With Sam watching Hope later that morning, Dean tries to help Cas stand. He can't. The pain in his thigh is excruciating. When the agony strikes through him, he collapses.

Luckily, Dean's there to hold him up.

The elderly gentleman passes by them then and Castiel is surprised by the glaring animosity he sees written across the man's wrinkly features.

"What's with Doug?" he asks Dean, having to twist back to see Dean's face. They’re half fallen to the ground, with Castiel's right knee in the dirt, stopping the full descent, and Dean bent over with his arms braced under Cas' armpits.

"Guy's a dick, that's all. Don’t worry about it," Dean hoists him up and Cas grips around Dean's shoulders for support, putting most of his weight on his right leg.

"But what happened?" he persists.

Dean scoffs, turns and kisses him. " _This_."

"He kissed you?!" Castiel is blindsided and dumbstruck.

Dean barks a laugh and squeezes him. "No you idiot. _Us_. Me and you. He’s a homophobic shitface and thinks we’re all lying fear mongers because, naturally, a dude angel can't be with another dude. The sacrilege!" Dean mocks, remarkably unbothered.

This makes him irate. "God is utterly indifferent to sexual orientation," he bites off with intensity.

"So you've said. No need to tell me. Nor would I care what God thinks anyway. Can we drop it?"

"Of course, Dean. Can we sit down, I'm, um, feeling funny."

"Okay, what do you mean funny? Like light-headed, nauseous, you gotta tell me."

"Dean," he gripes, "I feel like I want to sit."

Dean pulls a face. "Alright, grouchy. Geez, come on."

Castiel let's Dean bring him towards a large rock, and lowers him till he's sitting. The ache in his thigh is now an unbearable presence. "Is there more pain medication?"

"Yeah, I'll see what I can scrounge up. Stay put." Dean teases, smiling.

"You're so fucking hilarious," he shoots back.

Dean's smile changes, turning a different kind of teasing, as he bends towards Castiel's face. "Is it dumb that I like you being dependent on me?" His best friend and lover doesn't allow him a chance to reply, but kisses him, holding him tight, scrunching their faces together.

When Dean backs away, Castiel replies, "Don't get too excited, I might turn out to be like you when I'm injured."

Dean's hooting a laugh as he walks through the trees and tents to find someone with drugs.

Lexi strides over in Dean's absence. "How's my man?"

"I'm Dean's, but good, despite you know, this." He gestures downward.

"Yeah, bet that feels like a blazing bitch, huh?" She plunks down beside him.

Cas glances to her. "Yes, it is shockingly painful.”

“Damn, at least you’re alive though. Man, when I saw Dean carry you back, I thought ... _Never mind_. Anyway! It looks like you’re a dad now!”

Castiel blanches. “Well, that’s unnerving.”

“What’d’ya think would happen when you took that kid in your arms? Besides, with you and Dean all couply and everything, it’s perfect.”

Those pain meds would be very welcome right now, he thinks. “This is all a lot to take in.”

"I don't doubt it."

They sit companionably for a time, quiet but enjoying the other’s presence. Dean returns a few moments later, his mouth curved down with guilt.

"What?"

Dean glances once to Lexi and then back. "So I’ve got pain meds, but they’re not the low-grade stuff. Your choices today are Morphine or Demerol. Both might put you on your ass though, so it’s your call.” In other words, if something happens, Cas might be useless. Not that he’s much better now.

“I’m on my ass now anyway, so it doesn’t make much difference. What do you suggest?”

Lexi jumps in, “Morphine for sure. Demerol usually makes people barf.”

Without a word, Dean shoves up the sleeve of his t-shirt and gets the needle ready. “Bet this isn’t the kinda poking you’d like from me, huh?”

Lexi and Cas both laugh. The blonde shakes her head at Dean. “Don’t hide it. We know you’d rather be the one getting poked.”

Dean glares at her. “Just because you’re a girl don’t think I won’t push you.”

Lexi jumps up and grabs Dean’s arm. “Bring it on, boyfriend-stealer. Let’s duke it out.” Cas knows her well enough to tell that she’s joking.

Cas starts chuckling between them. “For some reason, this is all _very_ enjoyable and fascinating.”

Dean and Lexi stare down at him and both of them grin. Cas finds Dean’s warm green eyes resting on him and he hears Dean say, “You want us to fight over you or something? That’s your idea of fun while you’re high on drugs?”

“I’m not high.”

Dean pokes him on the shoulder and he nearly falls over. Lexi catches him on the other side. “Nope, not high at all,” Dean affirms.

“Maybe we should put him in your tent,” Lexi suggests. Her face turns fuzzy and Dean’s voice sounds like smooth rocks bumping together.

All of a sudden he’s floating. Or flying? Maybe he’s flying again. “Am I flying, Dean?” he asks, unsure how clear is voice is coming out.

“Oh, you’re flying alright,” replies Dean.

Sometime later, Cas wakes to the sound of crying. The world is slow and he feels heavy again. “What’s going on?” he asks.

“Sorry! Hope won’t stop crying.”

Cas turns his head and opens his eyes. It’s dark. Must be nighttime again. Dean’s wearing nothing but boxers and a t-shirt and has Hope up on his chest, her head moving against his shoulder.

“She hungry?”

Dean huffs. “I don’t know. We don’t have formula so I made the last of the oatmeal and only gave her the watery parts so she didn’t choke but it’s not enough. Josh said he’d try and find some wild carrots tomorrow or something that we can boil and mash up.”

“Give her to me.”

Dean looks at him for a long moment, taking stock of his state. Cas rolls his eyes. “I’m groggy but I’m not dying. Dean please, I’m good with infants.”

Shrugging, Dean places her onto Cas’ chest. “Alright then, do some magic.”

Familiar with humans in a way Dean might not be, Cas hums deeply, feeling the vibrations in his chest and reaches up to rub her back. Her screeching winds down to sporadic hitches and before long she’s quiet on him.

“Fucking baby whisperer,” Dean murmurs.

“You’re too keyed up. She can sense it.”

“Of course I’m keyed up. I have nothing to offer her, you’ve been comatose for the whole day. Doug and I had some words.”

Cas raises his eyebrows at Dean. “You had words?”

Dean exhales in a gush. “Okay. So maybe he became acquainted with my fist.”

“Dean,” he gripes. Despite Doug’s behaviour, Dean should not have punched a nearly seventy-year old man.

“Sue me, alright. Guy’s a dick and he deserved it.”

Dropping the subject as he redirects his focus, Cas smooths his hand over Hope’s soft head, her blonde hair is unbelievable soft and fine. “My, she’s small, isn’t she?”

A tender smile spreads across Dean’s face. “Yeah. Cute as hell, too. You know she’s somehow ours now, right? I mean, I don’t know how that happened exactly ... but, uh, yeah. Anyway—Congrats dad!”

Castiel searches Dean’s eyes, looking for apprehension or reluctance. “Is this too much?”

“No, no,” says Dean, a bit too quick. “Unexpected, sure, but that’s kind of my whole life so what can ya do?”

“Normally the unexpected occurrences of your life have been bad. Is any of this bad?”

Dean stares at him, his eyes flickering down to Hope. “You and her? Not bad. Not bad at all.”

Regardless of Dean’s reassurances, Castiel can see the worries that reside in him. A lot has happened all at once, and in a world that’s broken. It’s no wonder Dean is guarded, trying to put up a brave face.

This is the first time that Dean’s ever had so much to lose. And with the way things are, Castiel can see the way it all drags him down.  
 

**  
**


	34. Chapter 34

Days later, Cas is healed enough that he can walk. Even still, Dean can see the flare of pain that takes over his features at times. It can’t be easy trekking through the forest with a fucked up leg, the muscle of his thigh all mangled. Sam’s walking on the far side of Cas to help along the way. The rest of the group is spread out in a line moving north-west.

Dean has used some torn up pieces of clothing and made a make-shift baby-carrier. Hope is all tucked in against his chest and every now and then he laughs. Baby in his arms, ex-angel boyfriend walking beside him, a gun in his hand and a machete hanging by his thigh. The stuff dreams are made of.

“What are you chuckling about?” Sam asks.

“Nothin’ man,” Dean shakes his head in disbelief.

Of course, Cas is the one to supplement his lacking reply. “Dean is having a difficult time acclimating to his new reality of being with me and being a dad at the same time. He’s been laughing erratically for the last few hours.”

“Shut up. First of all, I’m not her dad. We’re her adoptive parents or something. Secondly, I am not having a difficult time being with you.”

Sam turns to walk backwards so he can face them. “Of course not, you were both basically a couple since we started out after the bunker.”

Both he and Cas grind to a halt and stare forward. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh c’mon, Dean. Don’t tell me you were both _that_ ignorant?”

Cas looks at Dean, and then back to Sam. “I’m not sure what you mean. Dean and I were friends. I mean, we had feelings for each other, but we were just friends at the time.”

Sam’s eyes widen and he begins to laugh. “Oh my god, really? Wow, I knew things were bad but fuck, no wonder it took so damn long. Neither of you ever noticed that the rest of us didn’t sleep two feet from each other every night? And the flirting! Holy god, Dean. Me, Josh, and Ray had a running bet going about the two of you.”

“We never flirted!” Dean spouts, the sharp crack of his voice startles Hope inside her little cocoon. He lowers his voice, “We did _not_ flirt _!”_

Sam’s mouth opens, on the verge of an impending, delighted argument when someone shouts from up ahead.

“Go,” Dean says to his brother. With a whistle back, he gets Lexi’s attention walking beside Kyle. “Hey you guys wanna come up with us. Might be something going on.” And I’ve got two important things near me and I’m scared for them, is what Dean’s really thinking.

It’s funny that he once hated Lexi. He’s surprised to find that he gets along well with her. She’s spunky, quick-witted and damaging in combat. It eases his worry when she takes Cas’ arm and pulls it around her neck. “Lean on me, hot stuff.” Annnd then she goes and says shit like that and he wants to punch her and lay his claim on Cas in some way.

Frigging jealously. Dean brushes it off and gets his head on straight.

Kyle moves up to Dean’s left, gun leveled out and ready. They all pick up on some loud voices, but it’s distinctly upbeat. Elated conversation, and not one gut-wrenching scream.

Dean doesn’t want to get his hopes up. Really, he doesn’t. Whoever’s up ahead could be bad news—they just don’t know it yet.

Even so, as he takes each step closer, there’s a lighter-flame burning in him that teases the what-if of finding more reputable survivors.

Or maybe even someone he once knew.

Walking through the trees to the commotion, Dean catches the movement of people. Clothing and faces he’s not familiar with. It does something to his heart to know that there’s more people that have survived, no matter who they might turn out to be. For the longest time he’d begun to believe that maybe there was no one else left.

And there, just beyond Sam’s broad shoulders, Dean catches a flare of red. Unable to keep pace with Cas, Dean starts to move faster.

“Sammy?”

Slowly, his brother takes a step to the side, his grin megawatt bright. Dean can see why.

Tears cloud his eyes as he hikes towards the familiar face. The flood of relief and joy robs him of words and all he can do is throw an arm around the small frame, moving in close and getting a mouthful of red-hair as he takes a deep breath to try and stop himself from sobbing like a wiener.

Charlie sniffs against his chest and squeezes into him, careful of the baby nestled close. It takes a long couple minutes before he can say anything.

“Damn, it’s good to see your face, kiddo.” Dean presses a long kiss to the side of her head. She smells like wet leaves and smoke. And she’s thinner than he remembers. Not that she ever had much meat on her to begin with.

When she finally draws back to look at him, Charlie’s eyes are watery and a couple tears have already made tracks down her face. Her gaze flickers back to Sam and then Dean once more before it finally drops lower to lay a curious expression on the infant he’s holding.

“Whose baby?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

Dean opens his mouth to give her the story when Cas finally catches up with them, threads his fingers into Dean’s hand and says, “Unexpectedly ours.”

Oh boy. Dean has to squeeze his lips together to keep from laughing. Sam lets out a small chuckle, smiling at Dean and shaking his head at Cas.

“Um, I’m sorry?! _What the holy hell, Dean?!_ I need to know everything right the hell now! First of all, is this who I think it is? As in ‘the Castiel’, like, from the books?”

Sam falls into shock, gaping at her. “You read the books?!”

“Of course I read the books,” she deadpans.

Dean sighs and leans over to whisper to Cas, “Prepare yourself to be inundated with questions by this one. Feel free to kiss me whenever you want to shut her up.”

Even though Cas is tired and Dean can tell he’s fighting pain, he smiles in that wonderful innocent way of his and leans into Dean for a kiss. Charlie’s all ‘ _awww’_ in front of them when they pull apart. Cue eye roll.

“Alright, alright! Can-it for now. I know we’re all excited and everything and there’s a lot of stories to go over, but Charlie, we need some details first. Where have you been? Who all’s with you? Have you run into any weirdos? We came across something strange a few days ago. Sorry to pelt you with questions. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am damn happy to see you. _Thrilled_. But we’ve had a rough stretch and it’ll comfort me if I know what’s what.”

“Sure thing!” she says, perky and upbeat. As they walk further into the open camp, with people milling about, their group and her group keep away from each other. Trust isn’t an easy thing to come by these days.

Charlie glosses over the last three years on her end and by the time they’re all finished trading stories, it’s late into the night. From what he gathers, she hasn’t caught wind of anything other than monsters or raiders since they’ve made it to this part of the country.

 

In the days that follow, they get a feel for the expansive nature of their current group. What had been twenty is now thirty-eight. Including Hope. Even though she’s itty-bitty. It gives them all a greater sense of security.

Charlie had explained that their group had been bigger but they were crossing California several weeks back and a large herd of the infected got to them. The strange thing, she’s noticed, is that monsters aren’t faring much better than they are. Like everyone else, their food supplies are low and she explains that in her nomad travels, she’s come across some strange deaths.

Monster-deaths.

But not the way they used to go with a silver knife, or a stake dripping with sacrificial blood, or some crazy spell, or what-have-you—they’re kicking the bucket from starvation. Desiccated remains with bizarre traits is what she’s told them. A body curled on the ground with dried out skin, sporting rows of sharp teeth.

Dean wants to be pleased about silver linings and all, but if those guys are starving, it means they aren’t far behind. And by the distant worry on Charlie’s face one morning as she looks around them, Dean can see how dire it’s been.

“Any of you guys hunt?” he asks when they’re alone one afternoon.

“Yeah, _me_ ,” she huffs. “I’ve been picking up survivors but they’re not exactly skilled, Dean. They all just needed help ... and I’ve been doing the best-the best that I can,” a hitch breaks through and she curls forward to cry. “But it hasn’t been good enough,” she continues, quiet sobs making her voice thready.

Dean wraps an arm around her slim shoulders and draws her against him, his head resting on hers as she tucks into his chest to let go. “You’re not alone, Charlie. You don’t have to have it all on your shoulders now.”

It amazes him how strong she is. This wonderful woman who’d been a computer-hacking, mighty nerd was thrown into their world without any training wheels, and shortly after that the entire planet goes to shit. And instead of bunking down somewhere, like others he’s sure have, she treks out to help people.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says, hugging her tight.

Pulling back from the embrace, she regards him with open contemplation, arriving at some conclusion or another. “Right back at ’ya.”

Dean smiles back. “Proud of me, huh?”

“I found the books right after I met you guys and read them all, even the unpublished stuff that was leaked online. You and Cas were _so_ the love story!”

Dean doesn’t have the energy to banter about what might’ve once been written by Chuck with regards to he and Cas. Instead, he meets her stare and shrugs. “I don’t know about all that, but yeah, Cas and I are…” Dean trails off, at a loss for the right explanation. He gives up and goes with, “I love him. Simple as that.”

Charlie laughs and thumps her feet up and down on top of a fern squashed beneath her feet. “Fuck, you two are adorable. And the baby. I mean, it royally sucks that the kid’s dad was killed, but it’s a good thing Cas was there. Who knows what would’ve happened to her.”

Dean would rather not think about it.

Especially now that he’s accepted Hope as his. Either way, the topic brings him back to the uncertainty of that day and he has to ask again, even though they’ve been over it. “And you’re sure you haven’t come across people killing people with arrows and stuff, right?”

“Nope. Not yet anyway.”

“I think I want to put a party together before we move north-west. Really feel out this forest. Something’s in here with us, and not just infected or some fugly monster. I don’t know how I know but I do. And I don’t want to be watching over my shoulder from here on out.”

Getting to her feet, Charlie looks around. “An evil,” she adds ominously, getting that sparkle of purpose in her eye. “I’m in.”

 

Something in Dean is desperate for Cas that night, and he figures he’s allowed to act on it—considering they’re like … together and everything.

Pulling Hope up against his chest, he carries her over to Sam and Kate who are boiling drinking water and organizing Josh’s abundance of kills for the next few day’s meals.

“Help a guy out?” he says, strolling up to them.

Kate shoots her arms out immediately. “Aww, yes, give that cutie to me.”

Dean hands Hope over to the warmth of Kate’s ample chest. The infant girl starts drooling down her cleavage almost immediately.

“Yeah, sorry—she’s a slobbery one.”

Kate doesn’t seem to care and peers down at Hope with awe, watching the distinct way her clear blue eyes absorb everything.

Tearing his own eyes away from their exchange he looks up at his brother. “You mind watching her tonight?”

“Of course not. Go on and get some sleep, man.”

Turning his back on them, he smirks. Sleep… _Riiiiiiight._

There’s a dim glow of daylight left when he creeps in through the tent to find Cas on his right side, deeply asleep.

Hmm. Dean hates to wake the man, but—

“Cas?” Grabbing onto his arm, Dean tips him onto his back and watches as blue eyes flutter open.

“ _Mhng_?”

“Sammy and Kate are babysitting so you’re not allowed to fall asleep on me.”

Struggling to grab hold of consciousness, Cas stares at him in a daze. “Um, okay. What are we doing then?”

Absolutely clueless. Dean grins and carefully climbs onto Cas’ hips, making damn sure his legs stay away from Cas’ tender injury.

“This is your only hint.”

Still out of it, Cas smiles softly and reaches up to rub Dean’s chest. It’s a loving touch not a sexual one. But it makes him hard as iron.

Eyeing the swelling behind his jeans, Cas says, “I won’t be a very active participant.”

Good thing Dean is on top of things. _Literally_.

“I got it covered. You get to lay there and enjoy. Lucky bastard.”

Getting undressed is a long, careful process but it’s done with a sort of fascination, both of their eyes ogling each other with each stretch of nakedness revealed. Having racked up a few times now, Dean’s amazed how the excitement claims him each time.

The other shocker? How much he likes being fucked. Probably because it’s Cas though.

Scouring the tent, Dean’s feels around for the smooth plastic bottle. It winds up being at the very bottom of his sleeping bag next to a thick, sweaty pair of socks.

They are living the high life, that’s for sure.

Cas watches him with casual patience and when he tries to lean over for a kiss, his dark-haired lover stops him. “If you kiss me I won’t be able to watch.”

“You want to watch me play with myself, do you?”

“Yes,” Cas practically hisses.

Smiling indulgently, Dean goes about making a show of things, loving the way Cas licks his lips and absently begins rubbing his own chest in the process.

“If you’re gonna touch yourself…” suggests Dean, handing over the bottle of lube. “Better make it good.”

Cas chuckles, and squeezes some into his hand and slowly works it around his thick sex, eyes closing from the pleasure of it.

All slicked up and wicked horny, Dean climbs over Cas’ hips and shuffles up to make sure he won’t accidentally brush the barely healed wound close by.

And then it’s a matter of working out the logistics. For all his sexual experience, he’s a bit uncoordinated in riding someone.

But he manages; one hand behind him to guide Cas’ length and the other holding onto Cas’ raised hand for support.

Leaning back, Dean tries to relax, letting the bluntness of Cas’ lubed cock ease into him. The full presence of it as he seats himself onto Cas’ hips is enough to take his breath away, his muscles shaking with the overload of sensation.

A warm hand caresses his thigh and he refocuses on the man below him. “I love you.”

Inside him, Cas’ prominent erection flexes, reacting to his words in the most amazing way. “I love you too, Dean.”

Leaning forward, he lays a lingering kiss on Cas’ mouth, registering the warmth of him, the masculine scent, and the strong hands that frame his face. When Dean pulls back, it’s no more than an inch and he stares into Cas’ eyes as he starts rocking back and forth, letting Castiel’s stiff slicked-up cock slide into him and ease out, over and over again.

Every part of him tingles, his senses on high alert to every brush of skin and damp breath that warms his lips.

As the outright gazing continues, the temperature around them creeps higher, perspiration beading on his skin and the inside of the nylon tent.

“I’m not gonna last like this,” he cautions.

Cas sinks his hand into Dean’s hair and grips hard, his other hand gliding down Dean’s back to get a handful of his ass. “That’s okay. I really, really like this.”

Dean smiles and kisses him, staying nice and close, continuing the slow fucking they’ve got going on. Guiding Dean with his lower hand, their bodies align even better; Cas managing to sink deeper into him.

His breath starts to race in and out of his lungs and soon he can’t tell whose breath is whose. It’s just hot between them. Skin turning greasy with sweat, a finger slipping down his crease to get a feel of the way their bodies come together.

“Cas,” he warns, feeling his body tighten up, his own cock hard between them kicking and begging for release.

It’s probably a good thing that Cas isn’t focusing there. Dean would’ve come immediately.

Stopping all motion, Dean sucks back some slow breaths and calms his body the fuck down. It doesn’t help much—every muscle is stretched tight and ready for climax.

“Kiss me.” Cas angles up and brushes his lips against Deans.

Groaning, Dean pours himself into the kiss, fervor commanding the way he dips his tongue inside and melts into the wet heat of Cas’ mouth. A rumbling moan vibrates his chest and all he wants to do is grab and squeeze and meld against Cas until the closeness defies physics.

Even though their hips have stopped moving, it doesn’t mean the action is dead. Waves of pleasure roll through him and he can’t help the way his ass grips around Cas’ cock, and each time he does, Cas’ hard sex flexes in him, stretching that infinitesimally more. And it continues like a cycle.

The most subtle sex he’s ever had in his life and somehow the best.

Gentle thrusting starts all over again and Dean knows he’s done for. The dragging sensation of Castiel’s lubed erection fucking him slow and deep is too much to handle.

Eyes locked, Dean decides not to hold back—if he comes a bit soon, so be it. Lips still grazing, eyes blazing into each other from less than an inch apart, Dean rocks back and forth, hips moving at random, tumbling towards an orgasm.

“Do you want me to touch you?” asks Cas, one hand still secured to Dean’s head, and the other clawing at the meat of his ass. But that isn’t the touch he means.

“No,” breaths Dean. There’s no way he could handle that. “Just keep holdin’ me this way—it’s fucking perfect.”

Landing a sloppy kiss on Cas’ mouth, Dean grinds against him, back curved in a steep arch, toes curled by Cas’ hips.

The heated tempo cranks up several notches, and every thump of his ass into the groove of Cas’ lap forces his eyes shut in pure ecstasy.

Panting into Cas’ mouth, his body straining in the cramped position, the peak of his orgasm roars up on him—annoyed at having been denied before.

“Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” Dean rambles against Cas’ lips, his body taking over and hardening every muscle at once, the impending rush of release accelerating inside of him and exploding out onto Cas’ chest.

Hips flinching with each surge, Dean rides out his orgasm in a daze. Reality seeming more like a dream.

Little pinches of pain spike across his scalp and it drags him back to find that Cas is finishing in the same moment, hands clutching him, the dim warmth of Cas’ release pumping into him.

Soft groans fill the tent and the whole exchange is muted in comparison to the last time but it leaves him more strung out than before, his emotions brought to the surface; all raw and exposed.

Dean barely notices that his forehead is plastered to Cas’, how his hands are cradling that gorgeous face, thumbing across his cheeks, and how he’s muttering I love you’s in quiet reverence. But he definitely hears the soft response of his name.

Always spoken with unparalleled affection.

When he eventually rolls off, making sure Cas’ fingers are linked with his own, Dean curls up beside the heat of his once guardian angel and drifts off to sleep enjoying how parts of his skin still hum from the memory of sensation.

 

 


	35. Chapter 35

With the clatter of early risers in the background, Dean looks at Cas and wonders why he seems distant.

“What’s wrong?”

“Something’s not right,” he announces, the depth of his tone giving off a hint of imminent calamity.

It’s not what Dean wants to hear. It’s one thing for he and Sammy and Josh to have a sixth sense about stuff, but when Cas, the former ex-angel that’s lived a million gazillion years throws out something like that, he knows to straighten his spine and take it seriously.

Since they woke, they’ve been working out the best plan of action for the day; talking about routes and teams for a bit of a reconnaissance mission.

In the end, the groups are: Josh, Sam, and Cas heading east. Dean with Charlie and Ray taking north. Kyle, Matty, and Sandra tracking west, and Lexi taking two of Charlie’s biggest guys with her—granted they’re about one-forty at best. The rest of the group will stay back with Kate and make sure Hope is safe.

Dean leaves her with two knives, three guns, and a flare. Part of him wishes he had a grenade launcher to give her too.

Turns out Cas is just as protective as he is. Gearing up to head out, the fierce former angel approaches Kate, staring her right in the face and says, “If something goes wrong. Just leave. Take her and get safe. We’ll find you.”

They all feel it. This impending sense of bad around the corner. Cas worse than the rest of them, and that bothers him worst of all.

Starting the trek with a sense of foreboding, Dean’s reluctant to part from his brother and Cas, but he knows it’s for the best. They’re starting to break apart when he shakes his head, eyes watching Cas march off without even a glance back.

How rude.

“Hey,” he calls out, his voice hard. “Get back over here.”

Curious, his man turns back and narrows his eyes. “What?”

Dean waits for him to figure things out, following his progress as Cas marches back over, somewhat impatient by the looks of things, wondering what the heck the holdup is.

“Did I forget something?”

Dean’s offended. “Yeah.”

Charlie caves before Cas can work it out. “Cas, he wants a kiss goodbye because he’s a giant sap.”

Everyone laughs.

Looking down at the ground, both annoyed and amused, Dean waits on it.

Finally, Cas smiles wide and leans into him, pressing his lips against Dean’s in a warm, tender display of affection.

In the background, two distinct _awww’s_ filter over and, no, it’s not the girls. It’s Josh and Sammy. Fucking jokers. Dean raises his arm and flips them the bird, smiling against Cas’ mouth before he finally pulls back.

“That’s more like it. You may go now.”

Even though Cas is rolling his eyes, it’s undeniable how happy the guy is. An ear-to-ear smile lighting up his features, walking backwards in a limp that favours his right leg. Man, he hopes last night didn’t make that any worse.

Dean lives in a deluded moment for a brief second, imagining that they’re not off to go hunt down some evil. And then someone clears their throat and he sighs, turning to find that Ray’s watching him. A strange, thoughtful expression twists her features. Slowly, she nods to him.

Apparently being with Cas and also being a love-sick moron has gained her respect.

They hike for hours, a few straggling infected cross their path but they’re easily taken care of. Mid-day passes and Dean’s about to give the instruction that they turn back when he hears movement through the trees. A rushing of leaves and twigs breaking fast.

Someone’s coming after them.

Dean’s gun is up, Ray’s ready with her length of sharp steel, and Charlie holds still beside him with a knife and gun of her own.

“I’d slow down about now if I were you,” shouts Dean.

“They took him!” a guy yells, the voice Kyle’s. And he’s alone. Kyle doesn’t slow down but he races past Dean and grabs Ray in a tight hug, muttering to her in a relieved, hasty greeting.

“Took who!?” Dean snaps, grabbing Kyle buy the back of his black button-up and wrenching him around.

Out of breath, Kyle looks past them to the way he came, pointing with his knife. “These men ... they came out from nowhere. Got Matty in the stomach with a fucking arrow.” Kyle looks around himself and finally drops down onto the leaf-ridden earth. “Fuck, man. Sandra and me fought and fought. I got a round off on one of em’, lost my gun, Sandra ran off, I was still fighting. Took one guy out ... choked him to death ... and when I looked up, everyone was gone, man. Everyone was gone.”

A million thoughts are running through Dean’s head. First and foremost is worry about Sam, Cas, and Hope. Fuck, this isn’t a place for a kid. What is he thinking?

“What’d these fuckers look like?”

“Big assholes, man. Military type, know the ones I mean? Staunch and shit.”

Dean nods. Yeah, he fucking knows the type. Wait, wait, wait ... “Details, Kyle. Did one of them have salt-n-pepper hair and a Tom Skerritt stache?”

Kyle stops breathing and stares back at him. “Yeah. How the fuck’d you know that?”

Dean turns to Ray, “After Arkansas?” is all he says. It’s all he needs to say. She’s already on the same train of thought.

“Should’ve killed them. I’m tellin’ ya man. Monsters I get. People are fucking nutjobs! The goddamn second they said no to taggin’ along, I knew something was off.”

The decision to get back to camp is made without it being said and they start heading back, quick and quiet. The sun is down when they cross through the last mile. And they’re relieved to see Sandra found her way on her own.

“You followed?” Dean has to ask.

“I don’t know, Dean. I don’t know. They came through the woods and none of us heard a peep before that. They’re good. Had to have been in the army by the looks of it.”

Dean rubs a hand across his face and pushes past her, his brain intent on finding the family he’s managed to build in this ridiculous after-life of sorts.

“Dean,” Kate’s voice calls over to him from a group and he rushes over, sweeping the baby from her arms and cradling Hope to his chest.

“Hey, little survivor,” he croons to her, kissing her soft little head. She’s shifting uncomfortably against him, on the verge of crying. The increasing commotion around them is hiking up and with all that, and her being strapped of proper nourishment, it’s no wonder she’s getting ready to wail. He holds her tighter.

“What about Sam? Cas? Josh?” Dean stares into Kate’s caramel eyes, imploring good news.

“Not yet.”

⊢≬⊣

Castiel stares down the slope from the edge of the outcropping, and reaches into his pocket to scoop out the couple of painkillers that Dean had forced him to bring. As he swallows them dry, he’s grateful that Dean had been pushy that morning—his thigh’s aching after the wear and tear of the hike.

The three of them have walked for hours until they reached the base of one of the many mountain ranges that mark the land of the forest they’re in.

Going on intuition, Sam leads them up the rough incline. A slow, arduous progress. A deep crevice cuts into the side of the mountain and they make their way through it to a valley on the far side. Overhead, the sun is getting lower and Cas grabs Sam by the elbow as they’re ducking through trees on a breadth of flat land that skirts around the cut in the land.

“We need to get back soon,” says Cas, eyeing the sky overhead.

Josh’s eyes narrow that same instant, the rifle getting adjusted. Staring hard through the scope, both Cas and Sam wait for him to tell them what’s tripped him up.

“Holy mother of fuck,” Josh breathes out, shock making his bushy jaw slack.

“What?” he and Sam say together.

“You need to see this for yourselves.” Josh hands the rifle to Sam, who takes it and lets Josh guide the barrel.

The suspense and worry are too much. “Josh tell me now. What did you see?”

“Nah, man ... just take a look. You won’t believe it.”

Sam has very little colour in his face when he passes off the gun. “It’s bad, Cas,” is all the warning he gives.

Stowing his worry and building panic, Cas adjusts his weight to the right leg, an unconscious thing he’s started doing to ease the throb in his damaged thigh, and peers through the circular eyepiece.

The gun’s angled by Sam, and the view sweeps across an open patch about 300-400 yards east. At first, he’s not sure what he’s looking at. There are many men around a decent fire. But there’s a shadow over the fire. Or, at least, that’s how it appears at first. After careful examination, the shape of the object—not a shadow—becomes clear.

It’s a person. An actual individual is hanging over a fire. Not that they’re moving anymore. By the looks of it, Cas knows they’ve been dead a while. And around the fire are gruff men eating. They’re eating the—

“Cannibalism.” Josh and Sam don’t respond.

Lowering the gun, he looks at them both. “Honestly, I’m surprised we haven’t seen this before. Humans have turned to cannibalism at times in the past. Other species as well. It’s disgusting and depraved of course, but not at all foreign to history.”

“Still doesn’t make it right, Cas.”

“I didn’t say that it was right. Dire circumstances happen to bring out the most basic, animalistic aspects of the human species. It takes strong will to overcome the need to survive by any means available.”

Josh leans back against a tree. “What the fuck do we do? Let them chow down on people-meat?”

Sam shakes his head. “We can’t, but they have enough guys from what I can see, I counted fifteen easy. Unless you’re that a good of a shot from up here, I don’t want to take the chance now.”

Blowing out a stream of air and making a face, Josh says, “I’m a good shot, man. But three-hundred and eighty yards or so with the sun going down is chance I ain’t takin. All that’d do is piss ‘em off.”

Castiel can only think about getting back to camp and both of them seem to get to where he’s at fast. They stayed out longer than they should have and he doesn’t want Dean to worry.

Another few hours back and they finally get into camp sometime long after the sun has gone down. Guns are drawn when they approach because no one can see anything through the thick black.

“Dean?” Sam calls out.

“Fuckin’ thank God!”

Smiling at the sound of Dean’s relieved voice, Castiel follows it, and is suddenly wrapped up in muscular arms hugging him off the ground.

“Missed me?” he teases, overjoyed after what they saw to find that Dean’s okay.

“You have no idea.” Dean gives him a hard, crushing kiss. “What happened?” he asks, looking around at their grave expressions. By the countenances marking those still up, Castiel can tell that they weren’t the only ones to stumble across something unexpected.

“Where’s Matty?” asks Sam.

Dean responds with a simple look. Castiel is used to it, but some of the others are frustrated with the long, silent conversation that transpires between the brothers. None of the details of course are part of the conversation other than an unmistakable sense of wrong and bad.

Later, they stand in a decent group a ways from the tents of the people crashing for the night. No fire tonight, it was decided. Not after what happened. What Castiel had suspected by Dean’s look is confirmed when he learns that Matty has been taken and from what he, Sam, and Josh had seen, no one takes the two bits of news well.

Dean is holding Hope in the crook of his arm and she’s sleeping. Cas can’t stop staring over at them with worry. And just the way Dean and Sam have unspoken conversations, he and Dean seem to be having one as everyone else starts to argue about what to do.

Sam’s voices rises above the rest. “We have to get rid of them.”

“Risky, Sam,” adds Dean succinctly.

“There’s no choice, guys,” someone else chimes in. A few others nod and mumble agreements.

Sandra seems to side with Dean. “I understand this is a threat. I do. But we don’t know how many they are, and you said they’re all military, maybe, which means their skills probably far outweigh most of ours, and we have a lot of people here that need looking after. Including that little girl that got dropped in your lap, sweetie,” she’s looking at Cas now.

From across their jagged circle, Charlie casts a furtive glance towards Sam, Josh, and the section of the group on her left. “She’s right, guys. I know you lost someone and it’s awful, but I’ve lost people too. We all have, I think we need to get the hell out of dodge.”

“Seconded,” says Dean, his tone sure and uncompromising.

Sam’s pissed. “What, you’re just gonna let them eat people, Dean? Are you frigging kidding me right now?”

Reflexively, Dean looks down at Hope and then over at Cas. He doesn’t say anything back to his brother. But, Cas knows that at this point, Dean doesn’t have to. Cas, however, has something to say.

“Wisdom will save you from the ways of wicked men.” Cas feels bittersweet in his quoting of the bible. The notion of the quote is not what some might believe. It’s not about outsmarting those that are sinful. It is about maintaining a righteous path to stave off wickedness that might overtake one’s own soul. This is what they face now.

“And what wisdom is that?” asks Kyle.

All eyes are turned to him. “The wisdom that I was taught years ago that doing the right thing is important, is what makes us human.”

Without looking, Castiel can feel Dean’s grating resignation. Without looking, he knows Dean has closed his eyes in anger. And he also knows that Dean most likely squeezed Hope a little tighter.

In the end, it’s decided with a vote that these men cannot continue going on the way they have. And in the tent after the group disbanded, he knows Dean is not pleased with the stance he’s taken.

“You’re willing to risk her safety over this?”

Cas is quiet for a few minutes before he turns to Dean. “Are you willing to raise her this way? Teaching her that it’s okay to be selfish even if other people are dying, being hurt?”

“Cas, don’t do that. Don’t go and take shit I’ve said to you in the past and twist it to fit this scenario. Nothing fits this fucking scenario.” Dean’s voice rises and Hope starts to cry in his arms.

“And yet, the right thing to do is still clear to me. Isn’t it to you?”

“Of course it is! Of course I know the right fucking thing to do. You don’t think I’m not pissed off, too? You don’t think I want to rip those fuckers to shreds for what they did, what they’ll continue doing. But if we launch some fucking attack and we don’t know what we’re in for and there are complications—always complications, Cas—and then I lose you, or Sam, or Hope, or any of the people that rely on us now? How can you handle that risk? How can you make that decision so goddamn flippantly?”

At this point Hope is outright crying, her face has gone splotchy red and her arms and legs are kicking out angrily. Castiel takes her out of Dean’s arms and hoists her up to his chest, her shrieks get muffled as her face turns into his neck. Her baby drool slathers all over him, but he doesn’t care.

Castiel soothes her, all the while glaring back at Dean. There’s nothing more to be said on his part. There are a lot of poor decisions that Castiel has made in the past, but stopping these men is not one of those. And the thing is, they both know it.

After Hope has cried herself out and the quiet screams between them, Dean looks at him with a lot gone unsaid. In the end, he tells Cas the reason for his reluctance. Not that Cas doesn’t know already, not that he doesn’t feel the same.

“I’m scared, alright?”

“I know. So am I.”

Rubbing a hand over his mouth, Dean reaches some degree of acceptance. As he lays out over their rumpled sleeping bag, he holds out his arms. “I’ll take her while you get settled.”

Cas passes the restless bundle over, a resurging bout of crying starts up again but it doesn’t last long.

Watching Dean with her, he realizes that they’d gone from friends, to not quite friends, to lovers, to parents. And the last few things all happened so quickly that they haven’t had time to really explore any of it. It went from exciting to something else. Something he can’t define just yet. Not bad, not good. But different. No longer about the two of them.

“Dean,” says Cas in a whisper, staring down at the man he fell in love with so long ago.

Not answering outright, Dean simply turns up to look at him.

“Can you sing that song? From before.”

“November Rain?” Cas nods. “Sure. Come on, lay down.”

Stretching out on his right side, Castiel shifts as close as he can. Hope is on her back between their chests, and below her, near the end of the tent, Cas tucks his leg between Dean’s, wincing when the movement sparks some pain in his thigh. Without pillows, they lower their heads onto each other’s forearms.

It’s too dark to see the green in Dean’s eyes, but he can see the exhaustion weighing on him like never before. There are lines near his mouth and eyes that seem to have sprung up in a day. Castiel imagines he’s faring no better. Still, Dean is as striking as ever. It’s worse when he looks back at Castiel the way he is now. The years between them and the moments they’ve shared written in a single look.

Dean begins to hum out of the quiet, his deep voice thrumming inside the tent. Having heard the tune a couple times now, he knows the melody enough to hum along as Dean lets the words take shape.

As they reach the end of the song, Dean’s voice barely above a whisper, Castiel latches on to the moment, cementing it into his mind forever.

“ _And when your fears subside_ ,” Dean sings, “ _and shadows still remain, I know that you can love me, when there’s no one left to blame. So never mind the darkness_ ,” a smile faintly catches Dean’s lips, “ _we still can find a way_.”

Cas joins him at the end, “ _Cause nothin’ lasts forever_ … _even cold November rain.”_

They fall asleep huddled as close as they can without crushing their adopted infant daughter, worries about the future put to rest for the next eight hours.

They aren’t out of the darkness yet, that much is clear, but Cas knows as he always has, that things will get better. The world will right itself. He’s sure of it.

That night, he dreams of pushing aside leaves to find hidden cucumbers in a garden. Standing next to him is a little girl with frizzy blonde hair sneaking blueberries from the basket by his feet.

He says, “If you eat them all you won’t have any for tomorrow.”

“Uh huh, I will. Dad’s hidden some in the living room.”

In the morning, he wakes with a smile but the dream slips through his fingers the way dreams do.

 

**  
**


	36. Chapter 36

“This is it. Everyone know the plan?” Dean looks around at those scattered in front of him. All harsh faces and stiff postures. Guns holstered, knives shoved up sleeves, extra mags, some shotgun shells stuck wherever they’re easy to grab.

Josh has gone ahead alone with the rifle they’d snatched from the police station a ways back. He’s their ultimate ace in hand.

No amount of weapons and skills silences the sense of wrong inside him. Like there’s a knot in his chest. Leaving Hope behind with Kate and a few others is like leaving behind a part of himself somehow and he hates it. And she’s not just his, she’s become this blast of life that has taken the love between him and Cas and raised the stakes.

They’re a family now.

If history is any indication, Dean is and will continue to be one protective son of a bitch where his family is concerned.

It makes the mission before them highly unnerving.

Sandra’s hanging back too, the whole thing has her on edge and Sam made the decision to tell her that she’ll be no use if she panics. It means one less body to help them fight.

Everyone knows where they’re headed, and everyone knows it’s risky. There’s no sense in trying to say when they’ll be back, because none of it matters. They either make it back or they don’t. Or some of them do, and some of them don’t.

People are nodding, adjusting themselves; antsy.

“Let’s do this.” Sam slings the Winchester 12-gauge around, the strap crossing over his torso. Bright orange shells lined up in sleeves down it.

Shit just got real.

And then they’re off. Walking again through the trees. Dean’s always hated the forest. And after the last few years now ... or however long they’ve been doing this, his hatred of the woods has amplified to epic proportions.

“After this, things need to change,” he tells Cas as they walk. “If we’re gonna raise that kid. We need do this different. We need to do everything different. I don’t know how. But that’s what’s gotta happen, you hearin’ me?”

Cas turns to him. “I know. We’ll figure something out.”

The reply doesn’t placate Dean much. There’s still too much uncertainty in their immediate future for any real optimism.

The walk is a few hours’ journey from their camp and it’s quiet, nerves high, people more alert than they’ve been in a while. They’ve lost one of their own, and part of Dean feels responsible. Was it an unwise decision pairing Kyle and Sandra with the guy? Dean had been sure that Kyle’s young energy, Sandra’s decent skills with a gun and Matty’s sheer brawn would have made for a solid group.

Three-quarters of the way there, Sam hangs back to match pace with Dean, turning to him for a discreet conversation. “If this goes bad, man, take Cas, get that kid and go.”

In theory, Dean wants to agree. However, the whole ‘things-going-bad’ notion means people are dying, maybe Sam’s in danger too in that scenario. “Don’t start that shit, Sammy. You and Cas wanted to deal with this threat, with these fucking psychos, so that’s what we’re doing. I don’t want to hear crap about this going bad, alright. I’m not having it. So just shut your fuckin’ mouth and we’ll do this how we’ve always done everything else—pedal to the metal, guns’a blazin’. There’s no option B, you got that?”

Sam nods, his expression solemn. “Okay. We’ll kick some ass then.”

“Damn right we will.”

Another three hours later and their pace slows and quiets. Each step is taken with caution. Predetermined plans of attack have already been worked out, where and how and when to drive into the clearing in the valley on the far side of the mountain.

With a few simple hand gestures, the vast group is broken into three sections. Dean has Cas with him, Charlie’s with Sam. Kyle and Ray are with the other side taking things from the north. Some of the others, including Jess—the Korean woman who’s not big on chit-chat but skilled in hand-to-hand are amongst them.

The dense thicket of trees that surround the camp mean that even in groups they’re relatively cut off from one another and while it might be good for concealment purposes, Dean doesn’t care to have everyone he loves out of his sight.

Josh is nowhere to be seen, but that’s the way it should be. He’ll have seen them though, that’s certain. The impetus to kick everything off is Lexi’s bird call, they edge in slow, a couple of them crossing into enemy territory at a time.

There’s a low murmur of voices through the trees, a few makeshift shelters have been done up. Real backwoods style. Dean’s moving slow when he sees a man standing secluded taking a piss, shielded by a grove of baby trees competing for forest space.

Quickening his pace, he slides up behind the guy and slices across his throat. Other than a low gurgle, there’s no other sound.

Adrenaline surges through him as he skirts around a wall of piled wood to find two more men talking. One is beefy, thick muscles rising up from under his tight shirt. Cas, he sees, is coming up from the other side. In a smooth effort, they both attack, knives plunging into the sides of throats, blood now coating their hands.

And that’s when all hell breaks loose.

A gun firing off from the west is like a cork being popped, unleashing a flood of noise; _bang-bang-bang._ Bodies crashing through the forest in a symphony of rushing and snapping noises as loud as if bears were going apeshit. The caliber of the people fighting mean that there aren’t screams so much as low grunts, curses, and growls.

People are suddenly everywhere. And it’s hard amidst the chaos to recognize who’s who in a split-second. Knife in one hand, gun in the other, Dean goes after anyone that crosses his path. A whoosh of wind catches his attention and he rounds back to see another unfamiliar face; some hillbilly looking motherfucker with his gun out.

Too late, Dean thinks, his knife already ripping through the guy’s stomach. “I’m sorry,” snarls Dean into the man’s shocked face, “did we ruin dinner?” With that, Dean wrenches his arm upwards, sealing the deal.

Other than raiders, Dean’s never killed people before. Not cold-blooded like this. It’s fucked up and he knows it’ll screw with his brain for a long time to come. Running towards his next encounter, he’s already lost track of Cas. Sam is who knows where.

Finding himself in the centre of the camp, the fire almost out, crisped up human remains lying on the ground, his resolve is fortified. There’s no sign of Matty so far, and that means that the leftovers of a corpse a few feet in front of him could’ve very well been his friend. Taking out his gun, Dean rushes across the wide space.

Three men—not his—are backing up into the centre, firing off rounds into the woods. Dean levels out his arm, aims and fires two shots off before the third guy has time to turn back, shotgun drawn and barrel-pumped.

Something pummels Dean from the side, knocking him to the ground as the shotgun goes off.

“They’re not all here!” Sam yells at him, simultaneously shoving at him to get back up.

“What?!” he hollers back, as they both scramble off under a hail of gunfire. They make it into the thick cover of trees before Sam answers him.

“Ray caught one and interrogated him real fast,” Sam whispers, both of them slinked together, ducked close to the ground. “After three fingers cut off, and a knife to his nuts, he told her there was near forty of them!”

“Fuck.” The curse is more air than voice. Dean nudges Sam around the side of their meagre hiding spot.

A renewed chorus of gunfire kicks off and there’s a stampede of people racing in from the far side.

“More! More!” someone yells.

“Far side— _GO!_ ” Dean and Sam trade a look as they hear Charlie barking orders.

Running over roots and dodging past each obstacle, Dean and Sam make their way to the east side, and on the way they see a couple people they know down and out. But they can’t stop. One of them is Amanda, the pixie-chick who’d been rode by a demon a while back. And next to her is a guy from Charlie’s original group whose name he can’t recall.

Taking a turn, Dean pinpoints Jess in hand-to-hand with a guy nearly twice her size. Both brothers fire off a shot to take him out, but there’s another crack of a gun that beats them to it.

Jess goes down right before his eyes. The tall, dark-haired man crashes over her a fraction of a second later.

They rush over, shoving the lanky guy off, but she’s already gone. Dark brown eyes remain open and unseeing. Dean’s anger skyrockets.

“Goddammit!” he glares at his brother. “How many more are we gonna lose, huh?!”

“Not now, Dean. C’mon!”

Being dragged up from his crouch, Sam jerks him along with a death-grip on his canvas jacket as they continue around the perimeter of the camp, dodging trees and boulders.

Booming through the forest is the unmistakable _bang-bang-bang_ of combat rifles, and in the distance, Dean can hear the distinct long-range that Josh is manning. Somewhere from the south is his best guess.

“Dean! Eight o’clock!” yells Sam.

Without thinking, Dean spins to the side, gun drawn and fires. The shot pegs the guy in the shoulder and he blows back on his ass. Dean marches over, aims down between his eyes and serves up the kill shot.

More men move in from who the fuck knows where. And it’s then that he knows they’re outnumbered. By his count, Dean’s taken down near eight on his own.

In an effort to regroup, the majority of people left fighting have taken cover, and there’s an eerie quiet that descends over the landscape. The sun is sinking faster than he would like and he doesn’t understand how it’s gotten so late already.

Far off through the trees, he catches a glimpse of dark blue, a sleeve torn at the elbow. It’s got to be Cas, but he needs to know for sure. Dean moves to take a closer look when a shot rips by him, catching the edge of his bicep and rips through skin and muscle.

“ _Fuck_!” Dean aims back around the side of the tree and lets her rip, cleaning out the clip in a good six seconds. “How about you just give yourselves up?” yells Dean, his voice warped with pain as his entire arm flares and burns. Blood has already soaked through his sleeve and he can feel it dripping down over his knuckles and making a muted drip-drip-drip on the forest floor.

Looking around, he realizes he has no idea where the fuck Sam went.

“Why would we do that?” a guy calls back. “My men gotta eat somethin’.” There’s a tangible sneer in the assholes voice and Dean hopes he can tear the fucker into wolf kibble.

“You’re some real sick motherfuckers, aren’t you?”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures, son.”

Before Dean can banter back, a motion from a hundred feet off catches his eye. Looking over he spots Cas, standing just off from where he was before. And it’s not his posture or the fact that he’s moved that bothers Dean, it’s the look of horror that’s descended over his features.

Dean follows the tract of his gaze. Walking in from between their two positions—yet unseen to the fuckers further into the camp—is a distraught looking Kate, clutching a bundle in her arms. She’s shaking so hard that even from this distance he can see it. And worst of all? There’s a spray of blood that covers her entire right side.

Dean’s heart takes a nosedive into his gut.

Firming up, putting every thought from his mind, Dean reloads his gun and switches hands so that the knife is in his right. Dean shouts, “Poughkeepsie!” and starts running. The second he’s in sight, the guns are firing. _Pop-pop-pop._ Theirs, everyone’s…

“Kate— _Down_!” he barks at her as he gets closer, turning half to the side to throw some cover for them under a hail of bullets. Cas is working his way closer in the same way, shotgun blasting through the forest. Pellets ripping through the underbrush, tearing through leaves and hopefully cannibalistic dirtbags as well. Spent shells are flinging out the side of the gun with each pump. Dean’s counting down each shot. They’re both almost out.

By the time Dean reaches Kate, Sam, Cas and Charlie are all there. Guns are still banging loud, a bit further off now. What unnerves him, is that he no longer hears the sniper rifle in the distance. Dean hopes that Josh is coming down to give them a hand—or fist, as the case may be. He can't bear to consider another alternative. Josh has become family to him.

“Move!” Dean ushers them all further into the forest at a light jog. When they’re a ways out from the fighting, he opens his mouth, “What the fuck?! What are you doing here?”

“They came,” is all she says, her voice thin.

“Who?” demands Sam, framing her face with his large bloody hands. Her arms are tightly gripped around Hope, whose face he can’t even see, swaddled in the blankets the way she is.

It’s Cas who answers for her, “The rest of them. We knew there were more. We went after them, but they already knew about us because of Matty. Maybe they even followed Sandra back, you said she wasn’t sure.”

“I fucking knew we shouldn’t have gone after these fuckers.” Dean turns away from everyone and scans the trees with his gun drawn, just waiting for someone to test his aim.

“Dean, you heard her, if they were coming after us one way or anoth—

Dean glares back. “If we’d all stayed in one spot, we’d’ve had a better chance and you fucking know it! What about everyone else?” he asks her. Which isn’t entirely true. He has no idea how to fight and protect those who can’t help at the same time. People would’ve been killed regardless.

“Scattered. Don’t know how many made it.” As the last words cross her chapped lips, her voice breaks.

Charlie vents out a few choice expletives, her eyes glazing with hopeless tears. There’s a rustle in the brush that catches their collective attention. Dean’s been observing Charlie and he watches her face fall flat, eyes widening as some new fear claims her.

“What now?”

“Infected. Lots ... of infected.”

Before he turns to see for himself, Dean knows it’ll be bad. He looks at Cas, and slowly, as if he’s not aware, Cas reaches over and takes Hope from Kate’s arms. “Give her to me. Now.”

Everything passes in slow-motion, from that readying breath, to when he turns to face what’s before them.

Moving between trees and climbing over roots are over four dozen infected, by his guess. More behind that, he’s sure. There’s a garbled scream in the distance, and the infected are closing in on them.

“Dean, Dean,” Sam’s shaking his shoulders from behind. “You need to go ... Take Cas, take Hope, and go. Just go!”

 _‘If this goes bad.’_ The words come screaming back to him.

Cas is holding Hope with his left arm, right arm stretched out, finger pulling the trigger of his handgun, the shotgun hanging from his shoulder, empty of shells.

They’re all walking backwards in a daze, more guns are going off and Dean’s found himself in a trance.

Sam’s forearm wraps around his chest from behind, and he speaks close to Dean’s ear. “Dean, man, you need to go. You’re bleeding, and you can’t fight with her here.”

From his left, Charlie’s tugging on his bloodied sleeve. Blue eyes stare at the side of his face. “Dean?”

The slow-motion action speeds up suddenly into a blur. Kate is taking Sam’s shot gun and shoving in new shells. Meanwhile, Dean’s been spun around by his brother, hazel eyes boring into him. “You need to get the hell out, keep moving north. Just go. We got this.”

“Sam,” he argues, his voice wrecked. “We can finish this. I’m not leaving you guys here in this mess.”

Cas slides in beside him and puts a hand on his shoulder, wide blue eyes beseeching. “They’re getting closer and I’m out of ammo.”

“Go, Dean!” Sam shoves him and Dean has a flashback of his Dad saying nearly the same thing.

“Cas, just drag him!”

“But,” Dean protests, “what happens now, what if we don’t—“ Dean can’t finish the sentence. What if this is it? What if they never track each other down after this? If he and Cas leave with Hope, they’ll need to find somewhere safe, or as safe as can be.

“There’s no time Dean, that’s the family you need to take care of now. I know it’s hard, I know. But I’ll be fine. Everything will work out—it always does.”

The sound of the infected getting closer increases his sense of urgency. Kate fires the shotgun from a foot beside his head and his hearing basically cuts out on that side. The whole world starts ringing.

Sam’s screaming in his face but he can’t hear anything except the ringing and some far-off bangs. Someone starts shoving him. It’s all moving too fast now. Everything needs to slow the fuck down.

But it doesn’t.

With the speed of a whip, Dean catches up to the impending moment and throws his arms around Sam before it’s too late. He squeezes as hard as he can. “I love you. You know that right?” Fuck, Dean thinks, I’m supposed to take care of you too. Leaving Sam behind this way was never supposed to happen.

With a rough grip on his jacket, Sam shoves him off and Dean can feel Cas and Charlie both pulling on him.

“I love you too, Dean,” says Sam, his expression finally letting in the possible finality of it, the unknown what-ifs. Familiar hazel eyes glaze over with unshed tears, jaw clenching to hold back the fear welling in him. In the span of a few seconds, Dean remembers the face before him as a toddler, as a yammering four-year old, as a gangly teenager, as a man that he’s proud to call family.

How the fuck do you say goodbye to that?

And then, somehow, Dean is running and he thinks his brain skipped past the part where he turned away.

He’s running away from a fight for the first time in his life. Leaving his brother to deal with it all. And it might be too much. Dean might never see his baby brother again.

Instead of letting the pain take him apart, Dean goes numb. All he feels is his feet hitting the earth and his heart pounding under his ribcage.

Gotta keep moving…

Charlie and Cas race alongside him through the darkening woods. The sounds of their footsteps thrashing over packed dirt, dried leaves, and fallen branches is a constant rush in his right ear, the left side still ringing from the gunshot.

Behind them, the chorus of a manic struggle overtakes the forest.

But they keep running. And he doesn’t look back. He can’t.


	37. Chapter 37

“We’re gonna die,” says Dean out of nowhere.

“No we’re not,” Cas replies firmly; the same automatic response he’s been giving Dean for days.

It’s two weeks later, somewhere secluded in British Columbia. For the time being, they’re avoiding bigger cities, not in a good place to be handling anything more than basic survival.

Dean hasn’t said much, and what he does say is not what Cas wants to hear. Talking to Dean about things doesn’t go well. Not that he’s surprised. His gut tells him that things will work out, and that’s what he relays to Dean. That same gut is also rolling in nausea from starvation, and from the sheer observation that things aren’t looking good.

Maybe everyone is dead.

A shiver rips through him in spite of the heat. A memory of Sam springs to mind and it’s from the day before the attack. Having dragged Cas off into the woods for a secret conversation, he made him promise to go with Dean if things ever took a wrong turn. Evidently, Charlie had been roped into Sam’s master plan too.

At the moment, Charlie is out looking for food while he and Dean remain bunked under a concrete overpass, getting shade from the stifling hot day. Food has been scarce the last several days. The few places they’ve checked along their travels offered next to nothing. And they’re fresh out of ammo, making guns utterly useless for hunting anything. Starvation has crept in and everything seems bleaker now than it ever has.

Dean starts up again, pulling his attention away from internal struggles. “It’s okay. I’m okay with it,” Dean says, resigned to a slow death. “But Hope ... Cas, we gotta do something.”

Dean’s complexion has gone pale, despite the sun that’s been hot on their faces for days. There’s a hollow under his cheeks that never existed before. And the dirt, as always, has dusted across their cheeks and hands in a permanent sort of way. They’ve foregone layers because the heat’s been too much, and both of them are wearing nothing but ripped, bloody jeans and t-shirts with the sleeves shoved up.

Looking over, Cas examines the makeshift bandage around Dean’s bicep, finding that it’s holding up well enough.

Once they’d gotten far enough away from the fray, Castiel had to force Dean to sit and let him tend to the gunshot. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it could’ve been. But there’s still a chance of infection, and the blood loss didn’t help anything.

Cas swallows down queasiness and ignores the pain in his stomach, heaving himself off the angled concrete. Skirting around the edge of the bridge support, he bends down and picks up every last dandelion that he sees, all thriving under the sun that isn’t taken away by the shadow of the looming concrete.

Tearing a few into smaller pieces, he shoves them into his mouth and chews as he walks back.

Castiel doesn’t so much as sit back down beside Dean as let his weight drop with a thud. Chewing for a while longer, until the bitter green is nothing but mush, he spits it back into his palm and pinches a tiny amount.

“It’s edible, here.” Cas angles towards Dean, who has Hope nestled against his chest. She’s sleeping. And not because she’s tired, but because her energy is dangerously low. It’s terrifying to see an infant this way. Castiel longs for the powers he once had. The past feels like a lifetime ago.

Dean sits her up and Cas pulls down her tiny bottom lip with his finger. “C’mon sweetheart.”

“She won’t like that,” says Dean.

“There isn’t anything else,” he argues.

Just as she’s about to cry, Cas places the small amount of chewed up weed in her mouth and prays she won’t spit it back out. It shows how hungry she is that the crying ceases, and her mouth smacks around the offered nourishment.

He feeds her the rest of the chewed ones and he and Dean split up the others between them. Dean doesn’t even bother to wipe the dirt from the roots. It’s a harsh reality when a person gets to a point where the idea of eating worms is enticing.

Castiel got to that point three days ago. They’re as disgusting as he’d expected.

Over the course of the next two hours, the sun descends low, angling the shadows cast by the bridge. They both grow more alert, worrying about Charlie, and worrying about something coming up on them when they’re as vulnerable as they are.

“What if we lose her too? Charlie, I mean.”

Castiel looks at Dean, really taking him in. “Please don’t give up. You’re not…” Castiel pauses, potent despair tightening his throat. “I can’t keep going if you give up.”

Only once has he seen the same expression on Dean’s face; that look of outright forfeit. Way back in a time when things were different, easier than they are now. Dean had been on the verge of saying yes to Michael, an archangel intent on using the infamous Winchester to wage war on earth. Castiel had never been angrier before that moment. Everything that Cas had done for him, and him alone (not knowing at the time that it stemmed from love), and Dean was on the verge of throwing it all into the fire.

As Dean sits there on the concrete, having shifted to face him, his green eyes weighted with sorrow and worry, there’s no impending battle between them. No argument like before. Just a lingering stare.

“You wanna hear something funny?” asks Dean. Given his tone, he doesn’t mean funny ha-ha.

“Sure.”

“Back at the motel? When we hooked up. The next morning I thought to myself— _What’s the worst that could happen if I let myself have this?_ ”

Castiel’s shoulders slump. “ _Dean_. Please don’t go there. We’re not the reason this all happened. This isn’t some twisted outcome where the Fates have intervened to destroy you. This is just”—Cas looks around, squinting into the last of the daylight—“this is life; chaotic, harsh, selfish.” He can’t help the dry laugh that escapes him. “The benefits of free will are all around us, aren’t they?”

Dean huffs. “I just, I thought ... that when I got you it would be like some stupid chick flick and there’d be some happy ending, ya know?”

Laughing, Castiel says, “Um, I expected insanity with you, wild and unpredictable.”

Despair has grabbed hold of Dean and Cas hates to see it. Reaching over he takes that square jaw in his fingers and angles his face.

"Dean, I don't know how our story will end but I know it's not done yet."

Holding his eyes, Dean offers up the faintest glimmer of a smile. "Oh, you're good."

Cas grins. "I learned from the best."

For the first time in a while, Dean laughs. It sounds tired and a little bit forced but he'll take it.

Dean closes his eyes, tucks Hope a little more comfortably into the crook of his arm and leans over. Lifting his arm, Castiel lets Dean settle against his side and loves the way Dean scoots in as tight as he can. Despite the heat, he feels better having the hard shape of Dean pressed against him, being able to feel each breath.

“And I don’t blame us.” Dean says eventually. “There’s no one to blame in this. Everything’s just fucked. I was naïve to think things would be getting better.”

"We all were.”

Minutes later, the sound of footsteps crossing asphalt catch their attention. Dean gets his knife ready, passing Cas their sleeping baby girl.

“It’s just me,” whispers Charlie, her slim frame and shadowed red hair crossing under the overpass and coming into view.

“Please tell me you found something.”

Tossing them a couple of mangled power bars that have melted in the foil, she says, “And that’s not all I found.”

Casting a significant look Dean’s way, and then shifting to meet eyes with Cas, a dim smile begins to lighten her features. Castiel’s not sure if he’s ever seen her smile that way before. He wishes he’d known her before all this.

“What?” they ask at the same time, rising to their feet.

“It’s Christmas, boys. We’re gettin’ out of the woods.”

Castiel narrows his eyes, confused. “We _are_ out of the woods.”

Startling him, Dean begins to laugh. First a few huffs and then chuckles strong enough to wrack his body. Turning around after the laughter has settled, Dean grabs his face and lays a kiss on him.

The dry press of Dean’s mouth takes his breath away. He can’t remember the last time they kissed.

“I love it when you’re you,” is the only explanation Dean gives for his sudden bout of laughter. “C’mon, Charlie, whatever you’ve got up your sleeve, I’m all for it.”

⊢≬⊣

When Charlie said they’d be getting out of the woods, Dean didn’t quite expect the getting out part to involve flying.

But there it is, dominating his view of the parking lot in front of a feed mill is a fucking helicopter. And not one of those fly-over traffic reporting helicopters, but the big and black badass military type.

“Are you kidding?”

“Would I joke about this? Be real, dude!”

Her sudden upbeat energy is completely at odds with his present state of being absolutely pissed the fuck off at the whole goddamn world right now.

“Can you even fly that thing?”

“Sure!”

Dean raises his eyebrows, entreating the truth from her. “Really?”

“Well, I’ve never _actually_ done it for real before, but I’ve got hours and hours of flight simulation training. I promise, it’ll be fine. Besides, Dean, it works! There’s gas and everything.”

“Where are we even going? Are we going back?”

Charlie levels him with an uncompromising stare, her resolve iron-clad. “Sam made me promise. He made me promise to get you both out ... with her. And I’m seeing that through, Dean. There’s been a plan for this. That first night after you and Sam found me, he and I stayed up well into the early hours. We knew there’d come a day when you guys would need out of this.”

“There is no out of this,” Dean deadpans.

“There might be. I have a few tricks of my sleeve, Dean. Just get in, and trust me.”

He and Cas share a look, holding it long enough to give each other the answer. Thing is? They’ve got no other choice. Die of starvation, or die in a helicopter crash. Does it really matter? They could go back. But moving from place to place in search of survivors, fighting the bad they come across? That shit isn’t the place to raise a kid.

“Okay.”

They climb in; Cas in the back with Hope, Dean and Charlie in the respective front seats. Charlie takes point. As she’s flipping switches and lights are actually coming on, Dean can’t help but give her a dubious eye. “You should know ... I _hate_ flying.”

From the backseat, in a low voice, Cas says, “You loved it with me.”

It shocks him, and he turns back to meet Cas’ blue eyes. They seem brighter framed by his tanned face. “How did you know that?”

Shrugging, he answers, “I could feel it.”

Their resulting stare is interrupted. “Sorry to break-up the moment, but Dean, I need your help—Can you grab the cyclic?”

Dean stares at her. “The what?”

“The thing between your legs, Dean.”

Fighting off the urge to snort at the comment, Dean does as he’s told. “This is going to be interesting.”

Just under two hours later, the bumpy, excessively loud and terrifying helicopter experience ends as Charlie drops them down beside a dirt-covered hill, the only real elevation amidst the unmistakable Canadian prairies that they saw through the windows coming in.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” says Dean.

Charlie smiles over at him and taps at the circle on the map she’s been following the whole time.

With a sigh, he argues, “Yeah, I get that you found your mark, Charlie, but the mark is literally nowhere.”

“Would I ever let you down?” Wearing a beaming smile and quite proud of herself, she cuts the engine and hops out.

Cas and Dean follow after her as she makes her way to the vegetation robbed dune. Walking up the steep incline is not an easy thing for Cas with his leg still healing, so Dean reaches over and takes Hope from his arms.

The bullet-graze on his one arm burns like a bitch but he’s had way the hell worse. They climb for a solid ten minutes, feet digging into the dirt, hot wind whipping against their faces.

Charlie makes it to the top first and she spins back to grin down at them. He’s never seen her so relieved before.

“Dean, Cas, Baby Hope—Welcome to your new home!”

Down the slope, half-built into the earth is a type of dwelling that Dean can’t make sense of. Charlie leaps into explanations.

“It’s like a hobbit home!” she squeals, unable to contain her excitement. “When the whole zombie apocalypse kicked off, I made plans. Excessive, detailed plans. Which included a gigantic list of off-the-grid type places. This was one of them! Dean, this place has wind and solar energy and all sorts of systems that work without regular electricity. We’re a good distance away from everything here. There are tons of plants and there’s a river close by for fish.”

Dean and Cas share a look with each other. They’re speechless.

“Ok so it’s not the most extravagant thing on the planet, Dean, but it’s safe. Or as safe as can be. This was the closest option on my map, and it was far enough away from everything that I figured it’d be empty.”

By the looks of it, she’s right. Whoever had been living here is long gone. Weeds have grown up around the areas where a garden once was. It will take a lot of effort to get the whole thing back in order.

He can’t figure out the right way to say thanks, so he moves in and hugs her, crushing Hope slightly between them.

“Guys,” Cas interrupts.

They turn back to look at him and he’s pointing down at something with utter glee brightening his dog-tired expression.

“What?” they ask.

“Tomatoes,” Cas sighs the word and starts sliding down the dirt-covered hill. By the time they all make it through the weathered wooden gate, and into the overgrown jungle of a once-garden they’re giggling as if they’ve all smoked a stupid amount of pot.

Ripping a small yellow tomato from the vine, Dean bites into it and moans like the tomato is the best sex he’s ever had. Taking some of the pulpy insides of it, he offers the sweet morsel to Hope who’s getting fussy in his arms.

“Oh man, Charlie, you done good!”

Castiel moans in agreement, tomato juice running down his chin. A laugh bursts out of Dean. It’s the happiest he’s been since ... since they found Charlie.

“What’s so funny?” Castiel asks, tilting his head, eyes narrowed. So _perfectly_ Cas. His Cas.

Dean kisses Hope and then rushes over in two quick strides and plants one on Cas’ thick tomato-tasting lips and replies, “I’m so fucking happy right now. I thought everything was over. I really did.”

Charlie strides over, taking bites of a cucumber. “It’s not over," she says with a mouthful. "It’s the beginning of something.”

There’s something she isn’t saying. “What’s up, Charlie?”

“Uh, I'm not staying.” The smile she offers him is sad, and yet, hopeful. “There’s enough gas in the ‘copter for me to go back. I told Sam I’d get you guys safe, but I’m not staying with you. You’ll be okay out here. I know you will.”

“If you think I’m letting you go off on your own, you’ve got another thing comin’.”

“Dean’s right, Charlie. It’s much too dangerous. You need to stay here with us.”

A funny snort bursts out of her. “And be the third wheel to your adorableness? I’ll pass. Look, Dean, I survived for a long time on my own. I’m not the Charlie you first met.”

“—I know that.”

“You need to let me go back. If for no other reason than to find everyone else and let them know where you are—you know I’m right. Besides, you got your happy ending. I need to go find mine. Just because the world ends, doesn’t mean life stops.”

He and Castiel stare back at her and Hope is in his arms making sucking noises with her mouth. It’s quiet except for the wind. It terrifies him to let her go, but she’d hate him if he made her stay and he knows it.

“I guess I can’t exactly lock you up here.”

“No ... you can’t.”

In a few short minutes, Charlie gathers some edibles for the trip back and gives them all tight hugs. The kind of hugs that linger because you don’t know if you’ll ever touch that person again, if you’ll ever smell them again. Charlie has become family to him, a sister he never had. He’s already been forced to say goodbye to his brother and it’s almost too much to say goodbye to her.

“I love you,” she says, a wide smile at odds with the unshed tears pooled in her eyes.

“I know.” Dean kisses her cheek and grabs Cas’ hand for support.

They watch her hike back up the hill, neither of them saying a word.

Cas strokes his thumb against Dean’s and gives a gentle squeeze. When she mounts the peak and turns back, her red hair caught up in the wind, she waves in big swoops of her hand.

The vibrant crown of her head is the last they see of her before she's gone, disappearing down the other side.

Fifteen minutes pass before the beating sound of the helicopter blades die on the wind.

Dean turns to Cas and finds that the blue eyes are already set on him. “I guess we’re home,” he says.

Leaning down to brush a hand over Hope’s soft little head where he lays a kiss, Castiel turns back to Dean and stretches to kiss him too. This one drags on, long enough that they have to take a few breaths during it.

When Cas steps back and the sun shines across his face, the wrinkles beside his eyes crinkle with the start of a genuine smile. “I guess we are.”


	38. Chapter 38

_Over Three Years Later..._

Today is not the day for this kind of shit.

Dean winces, biting off a hiss as he walks tenderly down the hallway—intentions to get into the shower.

He was in a bad mood when he left the house, a worse mood when he ran into some fugly monster he’s never encountered before, and a total crap mood having to walk back with a probable broken rib and a skewered foot.

When he finally makes it into the cheater bathroom, exhaustion attacks him and he winds up sitting his ass on the edge of the stone tub staring across the bathroom at the door to the bedroom he shares with Cas.

It’s late and he’s been gone the whole day. But it’s not the first time and he’s not surprised that Hope and Cas are already in bed.

It’s been over three years since they left everyone behind.

Over three years since he’s seen his brother. And the thing is, he likes his life. He does. He loves the quirky home that runs on solar and wind energy (even if it’s a giant pain in the ass when something fucks up). The inside walls are beige-painted stucco over layers of old tires as insulation. Beneath their feet is unfinished wood and stone. The bathroom’s strangely inviting, despite its dark orange palette on the floor and walls.

Every day they go out and do something: whether it’s tending to the garden, or hunting, or scouring Lethbridge for whatever they haven’t found yet. And at night, the three of them sit on the couch and sometimes they use up precious electricity to run the TV and watch a movie, but more often Dean and Cas end tell Hope stories from the past. They twist them to sound like adventure tales to avoid nightmares. She’s too young for harsh truths.

But sometimes Dean can’t stand the losses he’s suffered.

Though he can’t be sure down to the day, it feels like November. It’s always a hard month for him. Before, he used to fight off memories of his mother. But now, it’s always Sam. The past seems so long ago. All those years of hunting, of searching for yellow-eyes and then fighting off the apocalypse.

Blood from his foot pools on the tiles and he stares down at it with idle fascination, watching the puddle grow. It’s not that bad of injury, and if he just raised his foot above his heart a while, it’d probably stop bleeding eventually. His current mood, however, is: I just don’t give a shit.

It’s when his throat starts to ache that he knows he’s on the verge of letting all the emotions rise over.

A sharp inhale starts things off and all of his features tighten up and the first cloud of tears coat his eyes.

“Fuck,” he curses to himself, annoyed but willing to let it happen. If there’s one thing having a kid with Cas has taught him is that bottling shit up is a bad idea.

Curled over with his head in his hands he lets it all wash over him. An old pain clenches his heart and the emotion seems to wrap around his whole body, forcing more tears to run down his cheeks.

A subtle creaking draws his head up.

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.

Cas, wearing tight blue boxer-briefs and nothing else, tries to wipe the sleep from his face and leans against the door jamb. “Hey.”

There’s no point in pretending. With the tears already rolling down his face, he doesn’t bother to wipe them off. It’s not the first time Cas has seen him cry.

Taking a step into the room, Cas sits down on the toilet and bends over to grab Dean’s ankle, lifting his injured foot into his lap.

“What happened?”

Swallowing thick, Dean tries to mop up his face and takes a big sniff. “Ah, fuck. Just ran into some fuckin’ dumbass monster. Maybe broke a rib, skewered my foot. Put me in a shitty mood, and ... _yeah._ ”

“It’s always rough for you this time of year.” Cas thoughtfully caresses his shin and over the top of his foot. “Stay here, I’ll get the kit.” Passing by him, Cas brushes the side of his cheek, wiping a few errant tears.

Dean nods absently and waits for Cas to get back. When he does, the guy gets working on stitching up his foot. It hurts worse than the injury itself and Dean has a hard time not yanking his foot back each time Cas pushes the needle through his skin.

“How did this happen?” asks Cas, eyes glued to his task.

Dean hisses through the pain and admits that he was being an idiot. “Mmnh. Fuck, babe that hurts. Ahh… Anyway, was fighting and not paying attention and there was debris… and I stepped on a metal spike.” Snorting, he says, “I’m getting’ old.”

Glancing over, Dean sees the dim smile tease the corners of Cas’ mouth. Damn, he’s gorgeous, Dean thinks.

“If you’re getting old,” Cas looks up, “what the hell am I?”

A tired laugh escapes him. “Ancient, man. _Ancient_.”

On the last suture, Dean bites his lip and grimaces.

“Want to get in the shower?” Cas asks as he places Dean’s foot back on the tile and throws a rag over the puddle of blood.

“Fuck yeah.”

Rising from the side of the stone tub, Dean holds out his arms to invite Cas over. Sidestepping the first aid crap on the floor, Cas settles in against his chest, his warm skin at odds with Dean’s dirtied jacket and jeans.

Gathering how tired and sore he is, Cas shifts back and starts to unbutton, unzip, and pull-off as necessary. Dean lets his man take care of him and closes his eyes to enjoy the sporadic touch of Cas’ lips on his body.

Finally under the spray, Dean sighs and stands there.

And what do you know, Cas starts manning the washcloth. Fuck, Dean loves him.

“Dean, he is alive—I promise you.”

Glancing up from his focus on the tub base, Dean finds Cas’ eyes. They’re so full of sorrow and pity.

“I told you not to say that. You don’t know, Cas. I know you think you’ve got some kind of feeling or whatever, but just ... don’t, ‘k? Just don’t.”

Dean doesn’t have it in him tonight to do this. Stepping away, Dean takes the cloth from Cas’ hands and starts cleaning off his face. It helps to avoid the searing stare he can feel on the back of his head.

Rinsing off, he tries to step around to let Cas have the water when he sees the vacant look in Cas’ expression.

“What?” he asks tiredly.

“Do you resent me?”

What? Dean stares back at him, dumbstruck. “Why the hell would you think I resent you?”

Cas starts chewing the inside of his lip and Dean knows something’s really bothering him. He gingerly steps over and takes Cas’ face in his hands, “Hey, babe, talk to me.”

Avoiding his eyes, Cas shifts his weight from one foot to the other and finally whispers back to him, “If, if it weren’t for me—for us—Hope probably would have wound up in someone else’s care and you never would have left Sam’s side ... and you wouldn’t be cut off from everyone now.”

Damn it all to hell. No wonder Cas always withdraws from him when he gets like this. Dean always thought it was because he spent a week or so being a grumpy asshole. Turns out, Cas seems to feel like the ball and chain that Dean used to think he was.

Pulling Cas close, Dean lays a kiss on him, lips brushing soft at first and then guiding his tongue against the seam, working his way into the mouth he’s familiar with. Cas returns the kiss with lacking enthusiasm, a reaction more than anything else. Water rushes behind him and he limps back towards the spray, taking Cas with him.

Breaking off, he stays tight against Cas’ face, crushing his cheeks with his palms. “You dumb crazy bastard. How could you ever think I’d resent you? God, Cas, you’re acting like I’d trade you guys.”

“No, I don’t think that,” he qualifies. But he’s hesitant.

Dean crushes him with another kiss and says, “Look, of course I miss Sam, and Charlie and everyone. And yeah, every now and then it really gets to me. I wonder if they’re alive, if I could find them. But I’d never, in a million years, _ever_ leave you guys.”

“But part of you wants to leave.”

Dean growls his irritation. “That’s not fair, Cas. I fucking love you. And I try and tell you and Hope that every goddamn day. But, you’re right. A part of me wishes I could go off and look for them. But I wouldn’t do that. I would never leave you, and I wouldn’t want to, Cas. We have it good here and I don’t think I want to give up lying next to you at night in some vain search. I’m sorry I get in these moods about it.”

“You’re allowed to be, Dean. I just wish you’d believe me—”

“—Cas.” Dean cautions him.

“I know I’m being irrational, but I really hate the thought that a part of you might blame me for being cut off from Sam and the others. And the stupid thing is … I know it’s temporary.”

“You don’t know, though,” Dean argues back. “You don’t. And I don’t blame you, or resent you, or whatever you think is going on in my head when I get like this.”

“Dean, I _hate_ seeing you upset. And the only way I know how to fix it makes you angry with me.”

Groaning, Dean blows out a breath and wraps his arm around Cas’ waist and drags their bodies close. “I’m not angry with you,” Dean whispers, kissing the side of his mouth. “And I love you for trying to make me feel better. But don’t. I need to be in a shitty mood sometimes and I swear it has nothing to do with you. All you need to do is kiss me. That’s your job and you’re kind of sucking at it right now.”

Breaking the tension, Cas laughs softly and lifts his chin to meet Dean’s eyes. Slowly, Cas leans in and brushes their lips together, the water from the shower drips inside his mouth when he opens up to let Cas’ tongue inside.

All of a sudden they’re both reminded that it’s been a good couple weeks since they had sex. Dean’s emotional state takes a one-eighty from depressed to massively horny.

“Goddamn, we need to fuck tonight.”

A relieved laugh skirts past Cas’ lips and he brings his arms around Dean’s neck and angles for a deeper kiss. Dean gives in and takes control, plunging Cas’ mouth with his tongue and reaching down to grab Cas’ very grabbable ass.

Groans pass between them and they end up groping and rubbing against each other under the thick spray of the shower for too long.

“We’re gonna use up all our hot water,” cautions Cas, his voice raspy.

Dean smiles against his mouth and reaches back to shut the dial off. “Better?”

“Well … now I’m cold and wet.”

“Then let’s towel off and we’ll get you hot and bothered instead.”

“I like that plan.” Cas climbs out, takes one of the towels from the rack and passes Dean the other.

Dean swears under his breath when his foot hits the tile again but at least he won’t be standing for much longer. The humidity from the shower follows them into the room and Dean decides to leave the door open.

When they finally climb onto the bed, Dean gets on his hands and knees. His whole body relaxes the moment Cas’ hand strokes down the length of his spine.

“I guess I know what I’m doing,” says Cas, amusement in his voice.

Screw subtleties. Dean wants to get laid. “Yeah, I want you to really let loose. I need it. We both need it.”

Cas’ roughened hands rub across his back, then down his ass and over the backside of his thighs. Nudging his knees further apart, Castiel slips a hand low and palms the weight of his sac before going further to give his cock a slow stroke.

Oh, god, his body is desperate for each touch. Moaning as he lets his head sag forward, Dean shivers as the warmth from the shower loses to the chill in the room.

Curling over Dean’s back, Cas starts kissing across his shoulder blades, his fingers snaking up to tug on his hair. Short nails scratch over his shoulders and down his sides, and he feels Cas’ wet tongue begin a path from the back his neck down the entire length of his spine.

But he stops at the very top of Dean’s crease.

“Lower,” he pleads.

Parting Dean with his hands, Cas kisses and licks his way down. When the wet graze of Cas’ tongue drags across his clenching ass a shudder jolts him from head to toe. In between each lap are the hot breaths of Cas exhaling against him and Dean fists the blankets and tries not to scream.

“Cas,” he practically sobs, desperate enough to push back.

Suddenly, Cas’ fingers dig into the meat of his hips and he’s subjected to an onslaught of Cas’ rough tongue, moving fast and insistent. One of the things he likes best is the burn of Cas’ days old scruff chafing his skin.

And then it stops.

“Cas!”

“I’m just getting our stuff. Relax,” Cas soothes, giving him a little slap on the ass before he eases off the side of the bed and walks over to the dresser.

“Is there any left?”

Cas hums. “Enough.”

Thank god. “Awesome. Now get the fuck inside me before I lose my mind.”

Coming back onto the bed, Cas detours and slides up beside him for a kiss. It becomes messy and unrefined, mouths open wide and tongues pushing against one another.

The kiss dazes Dean and he turns to the side more, one arm locking around Cas’ neck to make sure he goes nowhere. At some point, he needs a real breath, and draws back an inch to take in some air. Cas is panting in front of him, licking his swollen, spit-covered lips.

Caught up in a stare, Dean manages to forget about the impending sex. That is, until Cas’ hand slopes down the arch of his back and he slides a finger over the spot still wet from his tongue.

“You said something about me getting inside you?” Castiel teases.

Dean blinks in a stupor and smiles. “Hmm, yeah, let’s get back to that.”

Moving behind him, Castiel gets into position and takes an annoyingly long time to give him attention.

When the first touch of a cool slick finger breaches him, Dean drops to his elbows and presses his forehead against bedspread. The following muffled groan makes Cas laugh.

Plying him slow, Cas’ finger pumps in and out in a tortuous rhythm. When he curls into himself and whimpers, it’s only then that Cas stretches him with another.

Over the years, he’s learned that they have very different ways of doing things, depending on their moods. More often than not, Dean has sex like he fights—which Cas has described as being something like a passionate tornado.

Dean doesn’t care for the analogy.

But this? The way Cas is teasing him is a personal favourite of Cas’. It drives Dean mad, but he loves it too.

“I wonder,” Cas says in a thick voice, his fingers hooking inside to make Dean flinch, “if you have any concept of how deeply I love you.”

Pushing into Cas’ touch, Dean groans and looks over his shoulder. Those blue eyes are fixed on him with unchecked intensity. It makes his insides tremor.

“Fuckin’ hell I love it when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Cas asks. Just wanting him to say it.

“Like you own me.”

Smiling mischievously, Cas expertly presses into him, fingertips stroking in the right spot to make him struggle to breathe. “In this moment, you are definitely mine.”

“Always,” he corrects. “Always yours. But right now, I’d probably give in to being your sex slave for eternity.”

Cas fingers him hard for a few seconds and then stops suddenly and says, “So you’re saying you’d say yes to anything right now?”

Dean moans and curls his fingers into the bed. Might as well own up to the truth. “Yes.”

“That’s enticing.”

Dean waits to be told what Cas wants to do and instead he’s teased more. After several minutes of being worked into, having his cock barely grazed, and his skin lightly scratched at, Dean punches the mattress.

“What are you doing to me? Is this the something new? You want to kill me?”

Chuckling, Cas squeezes his hips and says, “You told me to _really let loose_ , remember?”

Yeah, as in, fuck me through the wall, thinks Dean. Not tease me into an early grave. “This is the opposite of what I asked for … actually.”

“Depends on your definition. About that something new... Still up for it?”

Good lord, yes. Dean hopes this means he’s gonna get crazy screwed. In the kind of way that will turn him, simultaneously, homicidal and groveling.

“Anything. Yes, just fuck me, for the love of god!”

Cas lays over his back and brings his lips against Dean’s ear. It makes him shiver. “Dean, may I cover your mouth with something? A tie, perhaps?”

Dean turns to the side and lets out a curse. “Fuck yes, you kinky bastard. Or is this just your sly way of getting me to shut the hell up.”

“I love you, but you are very loud when we have sex. I’d rather not have our daughter be woken up by you screaming.”

“I don’t scream!” Dean fires back. He shouts. It’s very different. Shouting is manly.

Cas hops off the bed, grabs something from the top drawer of their dresser and comes back to quickly wrap a long cotton tie around his head. In a low whisper, Cas says, “Well you won’t be tonight.”

As the soft material slips between his lips and pulls tight, Dean shudders and lowers his face onto the bed. It’s funny that the addition of the tie makes him feel more naked than he was without it.

Every one of his senses are heightened and when Cas starts to massage his back, hips, and ass, he starts to beg.

“If you want to stop, just tap my arm twice.”

Like hell that’s gonna happen, Dean thinks, laughing against the tie in his mouth.

For the next tortuous half hour, Cas teases him more with licks and sucks and deft fingers that stroke him to the edge but never let him go over. By that mid-hour mark, he’s starting to shake and tears have formed at the corners of his eyes.

“Please,” he mumbles.

Cas circles his entrance with a lubed finger, sliding in and drawing back. Dean’s gonna break something very soon.

“Mmngh, ‘ammit ... ‘ease!”

Ignoring him, Cas stretches him with two fingers and pushes in to the last knuckle. A choked off groan of frustration muffles out around the tie, dampened from his humid breath. But then the pace changes.

Oh, fuck. Cas doesn’t hold back, and sets up a punishing pace, twisting and working him open without being careful the way he was before. It’s exactly what Dean wants.

With a creak in the bed, Cas stops the tease and shifts away from him. A few seconds later, Dean is pushed onto his back and he’s sure that he’s a mess.

Pulling his legs back, even though they’re shaking, Dean watches Cas’ powerful body crawl up to him, his cock slicked up and ready to go.

They reach for each other at the same time, and the moment Castiel’s weight settles on him, he feels the blunt smooth head of Cas’ sex fill him, pressing in until everything feels tight and his ass clenches around the solid weight. There’s no give at all. And it’s fucking awesome.

“Mmm,” he moans around the tie. Cas kisses him over it and then pulls it down with his fingers. Dean gasps a breath and in a coarse voice says, “Fuck you’re hard!”

“The teasing kills me too,” Cas whispers over his mouth. A heated kiss unfolds between them as Cas draws back and snaps his hips. The movement so quick and sharp, that it startles his body, being taken so completely.

Dean starts to tremble and demands more.

“Oh god, fuck like that.”

A ragged, excited moan rises from Castiel’s throat and he shoves the tie back in place and pins Dean’s hands above his hand. There’s no pause for him to take a steadying breath—Cas starts to hammer into him hard and fast and he bites down on the wet fabric to keep from yelling.

Guess that was a smart idea after all.

Grunting with his efforts, Cas works into him like a desperate man and Dean fucking loves it. He loves the wild look Cas gets in his eyes when they go to town on each other like this.

The pace slows as Cas takes a breather, his hands moving to wrestle Dean into a better spot on the bed so they don’t end up crashing through the wall.

As Cas settles into a less brazen tempo, Dean links their fingers together and meets his eyes, watching the heat grow deeper as he starts to do what he can to move his hips in their limited position.

“Dean,” Cas says his name deep and rough like a warning.

Intensifying his gaze, Dean taunts him to go harder and faster. They know how to relay what they want during sex with very little words. A language perfected over time.

Pulling back, Cas slips out and smiles. Dean suffers through Cas teasing his entrance with the plump slickness of his cock until, with one simple look, Dean threatens to scream.

Castiel’s hands grab onto him, no doubt to hold him in place, and all at once he reclaims Dean’s body and bottoms out, not wasting a second to pull back and thrust again.

There are no more breaks. Dean gladly takes the finality of all the earlier build up and teasing, his body rocking on the mattress, his legs and abs trembling.

Each quick thump against his hips rattles him from head to toe and he knows he’s close to going over.

Out of nowhere, Cas yanks the tie out and feverishly kisses him, moaning and panting against his lips.

“Touch yourself,” Cas says sternly, eyes boring into him from less than an inch away.

It’s cramped between them, all huddled and bent close as they can, but he shoves his arm between them and wraps his fingers around his hot erection.

“Oh god,” he hisses, angling up to nip Cas’ bottom lip with his teeth.

Cas moans and throws one arm under Dean’s knee and grabs a fistful of his short hair in the other. It hurts but in a way that feels fucking amazing.

“Do you need the tie?” Cas whispers with their lips touching, oxygen passing between them.

In other words: _Are you going to be loud as fuck?_ Dean grins and nods.

Letting go of his hair, Cas shoves the well-used garment between his teeth and resumes yanking on his hair for something to hold on to. Besides, he knows Dean likes it.

It’s like they’re both getting ready, finding their marks before the climax leaves them brainless. Cas kisses him sloppily, tongue slipping in for a taste. When he pulls back to stare at Dean, he looks fierce and dominant.

It’s one hell of a turn on.

And everything becomes a frenzy. Cas resumes fucking him in a way that rattles his nerves in the most spectacular way. Like he can’t see it ever ending and it makes him shaky, reminding him that the depth of his love has the power to terrify him—even after all this time.

“Keep touching yourself,” Cas reminds him.

Trying to split focus between Cas and his own hand, Dean manages to work himself in time with Cas’ thrusts.

All of him starts to ache, and Dean can hear himself let out a noise that’s embarrassingly close to a sob.

“Oh, fuck. Dean … I can’t…”

Cas’ mouth gapes and his eyes flare wide, his body jerks from head to toe, hips instinctively ramming against Dean. The iron-hard cock buried in his ass starts to kick, unloading a warmth into him.

“Please, please come, Dean,” Cas pants over him, his arms shaking as he tries to frame Dean’s face. Fingers lazily tugging at the tie rubbing over his tongue.

Half out of his mind, Dean continues to stroke himself, his fingers loose around the shaft, moving up over the head.

Dean starts to hyperventilate the closer he gets, and it has nothing to do with the tie. Inside him, he can feel Cas growing soft but the familiar sex continues to fuck him. Come drips down towards his back. Grinding his teeth, his fist flies fast, his body twitching and strung out.

“Come,” Cas says softly against his mouth.

Everything goes white for a split-second, and then he breaks apart. Every inch of him starts shaking hard as he cries out around the tie, succumbing to the waves of ecstasy rushing through his veins. His cock throbs with each pulse and it feels so goddamn good he wants to laugh and cry at the same time.

Eyes blinking rapidly and chest heaving like he just sprinted ten miles, Dean tries to reorient himself back to earth. Holy fuck.

Sometimes they have sex. And sometimes…

“Are you okay?” Cas kisses his cheek and pulls off the tie.

“Hmm,” is all manages to reply.

Cas pulls out and Dean has a hard time unbending his legs to let them rest back on the bed. He’s still shaking, or more like twitching, like his body is all, ‘ _What the fuck just happened?_ ’

“I’ll clean you up. Just stay there.”

Dean sort of giggles and curls up in Cas’ absence. Like he’s gonna move. Right, yeah, that’s happening.

Coming back into the room with a damp cloth, Dean gets a nice wipe down and some more kisses from his man.

“Here.” Something light and familiar lands on his hip.

Dean grunts at it.

“Boxers, Dean. And you need to get up, the comforter has come all over it, I need to change it.”

“No,” he grumbles.

Hands grab his wrists and start pulling. Dean protests some more but finally finds himself standing beside the bed with one foot gingerly held off the floor, his arms crossed, waiting on Cas to fix things up for them. Snatching the boxers extended to him, he shoves his legs into them.

After ten thousand years he’s finally allowed back into bed and squirms over to his side. Cas follows and wraps around him, squeezing him in a kind of full body hug. Dean likes it.

“Hmm, love you so much,” Dean mumbles.

“I know. I love you too, Dean.”

“I wish we could sleep in tomorrow.” Dean sighs, lazily kissing whatever part of Cas is available to him.

Cas snorts and offers a quick sarcastic laugh. “Good luck. We’ll be woken up at seven probably.”

 

“ _Dad_!”

Wow. There’s nothing like a four year old’s scream to start the day.

“Yup ... that’s me,” answers Dean, one eye open to watch Hope catapult herself up onto their low bed.

Cas groans beside him as she clambers over them, her little knees and feet and hands stomping around until she settles between them up near the pillows. It’s mornings like this that remind them of why they never, _ever_ fall asleep naked anymore.

“You’re back!” she cheers, her tiny arms wrapping around his head. A wet kiss is planted on his forehead.

“I’m back,” he answers blearily.

Cas reaches up and pulls her down so she’s no longer squirming. “Careful, Dad got hurt yesterday.”

Dean’s tempted laugh. Raising his eyebrows, he gives Cas a look. Daddy was not very careful with Dad last night, was he?

Cas smiles back and gives him a wink.

Between them, Hope frowns deeply. This adorable tragic sadness. “Are you okay?” she asks, her face an inch from his, her blue eyes staring at him as intently as Cas does. Frizzy, blond curls hang over her face. He and Cas have had a hell of a time trying to tame her crazy head of hair.

“I’m fine, kiddo. Why don’t you go eat some cereal and we’ll be up in a bit, okay?”

Hope stares at him a few seconds longer, as if she’s really making sure he’s fine. It melts his heart. Another sloppy kiss later and a near miss of a knee in the groin and she’s racing down the hall to the kitchen at the other end of the house. They can hear her talking to herself or some imaginary friend.

Dean reaches across the bed and drags Cas over to him. “We got, maybe, twenty minutes of cuddling time. Get in here.”

Laughing, Cas pushes a leg between Dean’s knees and slides an arm under his head. They kiss and stare at each other and enjoy the morning after.

“How’s your rib?” Cas asks him, grinning sheepishly.

“Hurts like a bastard. Geez, you didn’t even think about it last night, did ya? Just wanted to get yours.”

Cas chuckles. “I’m sure you’ll live. Besides, I don’t recall being the one begging for it.”

“Oh, shut up.” Dean yawns and squirms closer to the warm body against him. “So, what’s on the agenda for today?”

“Get the garden ready for winter.”

Ugh. Dean’s still not really a fan of the gardening business, but it’s easy enough and he’ll help. A fun family activity. “Sounds great.”

Hope is sitting at the table on a stack of books eating dry cereal when they finally make it into the kitchen, her short legs swinging against the chair.

“Daddy told me a secret,” she says, her chin pushed up, a scheming expression marking her tiny features.

Dean glances over at Cas as he’s dumping cereal into their bowls. “Oh, did he now?” The former angel grins at him but says nothing.

“Yup!” adds Hope, looking smug.

Dean leaves the bowls on the long butcher-block counter and moves up behind her and tickles her neck. She squeals and bats him away. “ _Daaad_!”

“You started it, kid. Telling me you and Daddy have secrets. That’s not very nice.”

“I can’t tell you,” she groans. “It’s a surprise!”

Intrigued, Dean arches his brows at Cas. _Surprise_? he mouths over at the guy. All Cas does is shrug and lick across his lips.

“Okie doke, I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Patience is a ver-chroo, Dad,” she says slowly, pointing her little finger at him. Cas laughs and Dean turns and smiles down at her.

“Virtue,” he corrects.

“Virtrue.”

“Close enough.”

Cas takes his breakfast from the counter and sits down opposite Dean, absently picking up stray cheerios from around Hope’s bowl and drops them into his own.

“Dad?”

Mouthful of shreddies, Dean garbles, “What?”

“Daddy said we’re gonna be in the garden today.”

“Uh-huh. Do you have an opening in your busy schedule to help us out?”

Hope rolls her eyes and goes, “Yah! Are there blueberries this time?”

Dean brushes her crazy hair away from her face and reminds her they aren’t in season anymore. “There’ll be corn though, you like corn.”

“I want blueberries,” she says stubbornly, scrunching her face at the last bite of her cheerios.

Cas takes over, “Unfortunately, we can’t always have what we want, sweetheart.”

Acting far beyond her years, she picks up her empty bowl and walks it over to the counter and places it on the edge as best she can reach. “But if we want something real bad we can get it, right?”

Dean and Cas share a look. “For the most part, yeah, if we want something bad enough, sometimes we can get it. But not blueberries, kid.”

“Ugh, alriiiiight,” she drones and goes to get dressed out of her galactic pajamas.

‘I’m terrified for her to grow up,” Dean admits. With a shake of his head, it seems Cas agrees.

They spend most of the day taking out bulbs and bringing them inside, filling baskets with ripe vegetables. Corn, squash, beets, and potatoes. The garden has grown over the last few years, but it’s only this past summer that it’s become quite abundant.

Without question, Hope is the most covered in dirt by the time they head inside and she’s still got way too much energy, racing down the halls in an attempt to get them to chase her.

Dean curls his hands into claws and growls at her. “Bathtime!”

A delighted shriek rips through the house and she starts running again. Cas lays a smack against his ass as he passes by and beats Dean to her. They both pick her up, Cas holding her—Dean mostly tickling.

“Ah-ah! Daaaaad! Stop!” She’s screaming and laughing and they’re unable to hold back chuckles themselves.

Finally, Cas lowers her and guides her into the bathroom. Dean cranks the water on and starts to fill up the tub.

Chucking her dirty clothes she starts talking to them about plants and how plants have feelings, and didn’t they know that? It’s adorable when she goes off on something. It somehow makes no sense and all the sense at the same time. They’re always amused by her little ramblings.

The stone tub has high sides and Dean lifts her into the bath, pain from his rib making it hard to breathe, but he manages not to drop her.

⊢≬⊣

Cas is sitting at the end of the couch when Dean limps into the living room, his foot obviously bothering him after a whole day on his feet. The faded green button up he has on is half undone and covered in water.

He tries not to laugh but fails. “You look like you were attacked by some kind of water spirit.”

Dean throws out his arms and smiles. “I was! And I definitely lost that battle. By the way ... the bathroom is a disaster. Apparently it was necessary to reenact the scene from The Little Mermaid where Ariel jumps out of the water.”

“I suppose that’s what we get for letting her watch Disney movies.”

Dean makes a face at him. “Disney movies are awesome. Anyway, she’s in our bed telling herself a story.”

Walking towards the couch, Dean peels the damp shirt over his head and tosses it over onto the chair and slumps down at the other end of the couch. There’s a small purplish bruise on his right side where he most likely broke a rib.

When Dean gets settled he holds out his arms and spreads his legs. Cas’ heart picks up pace as it always does and he moves across the couch to settle against Dean, resting his face against Dean’s bare chest.

“So what was that surprise you two were scheming about?” asks Dean, combing his fingers through Cas’ hair.

Smiling against Dean’s skin, he places a kiss and answers, “You’ll see.”

The fingers carding through his hair cease. “You’re seriously not gonna tell me?”

“Nope.” After his dream last night, Cas is sure about things, but knows it’s not a good idea to bring it up with Dean.

Dean gently tugs a chunk of his hair and blows out a breath. “Fine then, have your freaking secrets.”

They don’t often watch a movie when it’s only the two of them, and at the moment, Cas is more than content to lay against Dean and be lazy until they’re sure Hope is asleep and ready to be carried into her own bed.

He does have one demand though. It’s a frequent request. “Dean?”

“Yeah, yeah, I already know what you’re gonna ask. Do you have any special requests this time?”

Cas laughs and reaches up to rub Dean’s neck and shoulder. “Surprise me.”

Chuckling, Dean wraps his legs and arms in a barricade around his body and belts out, “ _And I would walk five hundred miles ... and I would walk five hundred more! Bada dahda!”_

Retaliating that annoying song, Cas pinches Dean’s nipple, twisting for good measure.

“Hey!” Dean jumps under him.

“What is your obsession with that damn song?!”

Dean laughs. “It’s catchy.”

“What was that song you were singing the other day—when you were fixing the hose outside?”

“Some Kansas song that Sammy and me used to love when we were kids.”

“Sing that,” he says, his fingers roaming across Dean’s scruffy jawline.

Beginning to hum the tune, Dean goes back to running his fingers across Cas’ head and he starts melting against Dean, absently tracing along Dean’s skin as the vibrations of unformed words rumble from his chest.

“ _Once I rose above the noise and confusion ... just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion,”_ Dean keeps his voice low and sings the song all the way through, never picking up gusto and by the time he’s finished, slowly working around the last words, “ _Don’t you cry no more,”_ Cas is almost asleep.

Later, something tickles his lips and it startles him awake. Dean is in the middle of caressing his face, brushing a thumb over his bottom lip.

“Hmm,” he shakes his head. “That tickles.”

“Sorry, you were all sleepy and I had to touch you. Anyway, we should go remove the water spirit from our bed.”

“Ugh, yeah. Okay.” Cas heaves himself from the comfortable groove of Dean’s warm body and can barely hold his eyes open. Remembering the surprise, he turns to the window looking out into the garden and wonders how much longer it will be.

“Something outside?”

Cas shakes his head, swallowing back a smile. “No.” Not yet, anyway.

They trudge down the hall, with Dean’s arm hooked around his waist and placing errant kisses against his shoulder and his neck.

In their room, Hope is curled in a little ball on Cas’ side. Knowing that Dean is still hurting from his run into Lethbridge, Cas moves to the side and slowly pulls off the covers. He picks her up and she makes a soft noise in her throat but the second he has her against his front, her arms curl around his neck and her legs dangle by his sides.

When he lowers her into her bed down the hall, she stirs awake and reaches out for him, “Daddy?”

“What is it, sweetie?”

“Is Dad’s surprise coming tomorrow?”

“I think so.”

“I’m excited.”

“Me too,” replies Cas.

Hope rubs at her eyes and purses her lips. “Kiss, Daddy.” Smiling, he leans over and gives her a kiss and pulls the blankets up around her shoulders.

When he crawls into bed with Dean, the man he loves is already fast asleep, snoring loud enough that Cas groans and decides of all the things about Dean that infatuates him, he could do without the snoring.


	39. Chapter 39

The next day, Dean can’t ignore the way Cas and Hope are acting.

Whatever surprise they have up their sleeve is something big. Little conspiring brats. Christ, he loves them so frigging much.

Cas helps him with some repairs around the house and he knows something is definitely up when he wants to go fishing just before dinner and Cas unequivocally says no.

“I’m not allowed to go fishing?”

Grinning, Cas licks his lips. “Nope.”

Hope comes dancing into the kitchen where they’re having the conversation and runs over to him at full speed. He barely has to look down to catch her as she leaps up at him. Hoisting her up onto his hip, he gives her a hard stare.

“That’s it, kiddo. What are you guys hiding from me?”

She laughs and grabs both his ears and makes a silly face at him. “I’m not allowed to say!”

Cas casually walks over, kisses Dean on the mouth and then Hope on the cheek and suggests they go watch a movie.

“There’s still plenty of daylight left and you want to watch a movie?”

“Very good idea, Daddy!” Hope nods a few times, giving the activity her stamp of approval.

“I guess I’m outnumbered then.” Dean swings her up and around so she’s hanging over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It hurts his rib like hell to play with her, but he’d rather hear his kid laugh a thousand times than whine like a sissy about a stupid bone.

“Ahhh! Let me down! Let me down!” she thrashes, laughing, and accidentally kicks him in the gut.

Moving into the living room he tickles her and leans over for Cas to pull her off his shoulder. “C’mere little one, let’s get comfy on the couch,” says Cas.

Their movie stash is meagre and they’ve already watched everything about seven hundred times. He decides to grab E.T., and sticks that into the DVD player. Before he turns the TV on, Dean walks around and shuts off whatever else in the house might be drawing power.

Towards the end of the movie, with Hope seated between them holding each of their hands because she’s cuddly like that, a noise in the distance perks his attention.

Dean scrambles for the remote and hits stop.

The sound takes shape. A low rumbling that he hasn’t heard in almost eight years.

“Holy fuck, tell me I’m not crazy!” Dean turns to Cas, wide-eyed, heart racing.

Hope yells, “You said a bad word!”

Dean ignores her and focuses hard on Cas, his expression stiff and edging on anticipation.

“I told you that I knew…” is all Cas replies.

The rumbling of a familiar engine grows closer and Dean looks between Cas and his kid and bolts off the couch. Racing down the hallway, he detours to the kitchen and grabs one of the few guns they have.

Crossing the hallway from the kitchen he throws the door open just in time to see a black shape moving in closer, the sun shining off its smooth surface.

The Impala pulls up a mere four feet in front of him and out of the car emerges six and a half feet of baby brother. Not the same as he remembers, though. Sam has aged in the way only a hard life can age you, and there’s a fairly gruesome scar that covers a whole side of his neck. It’s a burn scar. Despite what his eyes tell him, this could all be a lie.

Out of habit and disbelief, Dean holds out the gun. “Explanations now or I shoot you.”

Sam, or maybe something pretending to be Sam, holds out their hands wide and says, “I swear it’s me. Check me over—whatever you need.”

Clenching his jaw, Dean debates doing just that or throwing his gun to the ground and hugging the guy. Fuck it. Here’s hoping this is actually his brother.

Dean tosses the gun behind him and walks over with purpose. “Fair warning, this hug is gonna feel like an attack.”

Sam smiles a second before Dean reaches him. When he hugs his brother, he doesn’t hold back an ounce of strength and even though Sam hugs back, he’s protesting about not being able to breathe. As it is, Dean feels like he just broke another rib.

“What the hell Sammy?” he asks, tears running over. Finding it’s hard to pull out of the embrace.

“It’s a long story,” his brother says, easing back from his death-grip. The guy opens his mouth to explain when his eyes are drawn to the front door. Dean turns around and sees Cas walking out with Hope in his arms. She starts bouncing against his side and Dean smiles at them.

“Uncle Sammy!” she yells, confident of who he is. And judging by the lack of surprise on Cas’ face, he definitely knew. Dean couldn’t allow himself to believe it.

Hope is straining to get out of Cas’ grip but he hasn’t let her go. “Check him first ... just in case.”

“You really knew?” Dean asks, looking between Sam and Cas.

“I saw it. I kept seeing it. I tried to tell you but you would just get upset.”

Sam rears back and pegs Cas with a stunned expression. “You saw me coming here?”

Nodding, Cas adjusts the wily kid in his arms. “Sweetie, you remember how we told you about monsters that can look like loved ones?” Her demeanour calms in an instant and she looks at him, very serious and grown up. “We need to make sure this is actually Uncle Sammy, okay?”

“Can I do it?!” she asks.

Dean blanches. Four year old daughter slicing a knife on your brother’s arm. No thanks. “Cas, grab the stuff for me?”

The two of them are moving back into the house and Dean can hear the trails of her arguing about it. When he comes back out, Hope is still in his arms and he’s got the knife but she’s holding the vial of Holy Water.

Dean takes the knife and turns back to Sam. His brother (or hopefully his brother) extends his arm and barely winces when the cut is made. Nothing happens.

Reaching back to take the vial, Hope pulls it against her chest. “I can do it!”

Sam laughs behind him and Cas shrugs. “Just let her.”

Such a pushover. “You’re terrible,” he tells Cas but moves out of her way. Cas helps her take the cap off and he walks over to Sam with Hope sitting on his hip still, her little hand wrapped tight around the glass.

“I hope you’re real,” she says seriously and full on tosses the whole bottle at Sam’s face. Dean and Cas bust up into laughter when it bonks him in the head. Water spills down his face and he manages to catch the glass before it falls to the ground.

Sam is flittering between not laughing and looking a little disgruntled. Welcome to our house, where you get sliced and smoked in the head with glass bottles.

Bent over and laughing hard Dean pauses to reach up and high-five his kid. “Oh, man, Dad loves you, munchkin.”

Satisfied that Sam is indeed Sam, Cas finally lets her down and she walks up to him, tips her head back and stares. “Hello, I’m Hope Winchester.”

And Sam starts crying.

“Hi Hope, I’m your Uncle Sam. Did you know I was coming?”

Hope brushes her frizzy curls out of her face and nods quickly. “Yes. Daddy told me and made me promise not to say anything. And I didn’t!”

“Good for you,” Sam congratulates her.

As the two of them get acquainted, Dean moves towards Cas and cups under his chin and pulls him close. “You really saw this?”

“I know ... it sounds insane. Maybe something about having been an angel? I don’t know. I kept dreaming about it, but I thought it was because I hated seeing you upset and I missed him too.”

Dean can see Sam half paying attention to their conversation and half listening to Hope tell him all about their life and her daily activities. She talks a lot, and now she has another set of ears to bend her way.

“But at some point, you obviously knew it was more than a dream.”

“I did. I could feel the difference, it just took me a while to really believe it.”

Soon after, they pile into the house and Sam tells them about the last three years and a bit. He explains the scar on his neck, he tells them about the community they’ve built.

“It’s stable,” he says, smiling. “I didn’t come here to visit. I came here to bring you back. It’s safe, Dean. The infected are all non-threats now. Their bodies have decayed and every single one of them are nothing but gooey puddles everywhere. It’s gross, but it’s better than it was.”

Dean’s seen the same thing for himself. But infected were never the only threat. With a lot of people comes other worries. “What about raiders? And other kinds of creeptacular?”

Hope is currently braiding Sam’s hair and trying to get Cas to help. It’s hard to hold a serious conversation while that’s going on, but they manage.

“We’re big enough that raiders aren’t much of a threat. The last run in we had was over a year ago. Maybe they’ve moved on, maybe there’s none left? I don’t know. But I promise you’d be safe. She’d be safe. The place is warded—“

“—I can draw sigils!” Hope chimes in, yanking Sam by his hair to bring his ear closer.

He chuckles and looks at her. “Impressive. I guess your dads are teaching you well.”

Hope sighs dramatically—a trait she has most definitely learned from Cas. “That’s my dad”—she points at Dean—“and _this_ isDaddy!” Her small hand reaches beside her and pats Cas on the top of the head.

Sam surrenders and answers, “Got it.” Turning to face Dean, he pauses a moment to just look at him—a whole conversation passing through them. Watching Sam grow emotional over the fact that Dean is “Dad” and Cas is “Daddy” makes him feel all squishy and warm inside. Frigging emotions.

Pushing it all side, Sam claps his hands and then faces Hope. “Hey, so guess what?”

“What?!”

“I have something for you. Actually, your _dad_ had it a long time ago. Want me to grab it?”

“Yah!” she screams. Her body jumps back into Cas’ lap with a _woomf_ and Cas tries to settle her down a bit.

Dean follows his brother outside, wondering what Sam could possibly have. On their way out, he asks about the car.

Sam explains, “A year after you guys left, I took a few people with me and went back to the bunker. Grabbed a couple supplies and took a walk through the garage. When I saw her, I got this plan in my head. I needed to get a life built so that I could bring you guys back. And I thought”—Sam starts to laugh, a fond memory lighting his expression—“what better way to make an appearance, right? Pete helped a ton get her running again.”

Sam opens the rear drivers’ side door and ducks in to grab something. Dean’s eyes roam over the planes of his favourite inanimate object. He actually forgot how sexy she was.

“Where did you even find this?” Sam’s asking as he unbends to his full height and shoves something in Dean’s face.

Holy motherfucking crap.

It’s the damn cabbage patch doll. A crazy kind of laugh starts to build in him. Relief, disbelief, happiness—every synonymous emotion courses through his veins and he pushes the frigging thing out of his face and moves in to hug Sam all over again.

“Nevermind about where”—or when—“I got the doll. Go give it to your niece.”

Hope decrees that the doll is the absolute best gift ever. Of course, he and Cas trade a look with each other. Apparently they’ve been usurped as the biggest presence in her life—at least for the moment. The commotion tires her out and a few hours after the sun is down she demands that Sam tucks her in.

After the little one is down for the count, the three of them sit at the kitchen table and really catch up. They stay up almost all night, when Cas ultimately reminds them she’ll wake up at the crack of dawn with Sam here and they should get some rest.

“I don’t want to assume,” Sam tells Dean when it’s just the two of them in the hallway. “I know you have this life here, but I really want you to come back. Chat things over with Cas. I planned to be here for a week regardless of what you decide.”

Dean nods, not wanting to jump on board without talking to Cas first. Sam takes the couch and Dean eases open the bedroom door to find Cas in the middle of getting undressed.

“What do you think?”

Cas chucks his boxers and locks both doors to their room. “I think we should move.”

Dean smiles wide and rushes over, picks him up off the floor and tosses him onto the bed. “I completely agree!”

Despite knowing the next day might be long, they don’t fall asleep just yet.

⊢≬⊣

When Cas wakes, he hears the sound of voices in the hall. Dean is still curled beside him, snoring lightly.

“They’re still sleeping,” he hears Sam tell Hope.

“But I always wake them up,” she argues.

Cas nudges Dean. “Put some boxers on, we’re gonna get a visitor soon.”

Groaning, Dean rolls out of the bed and almost falls on the floor. Cas throws off the blankets and walks towards the dresser and takes out a pair of shorts and throws them on. Dean is standing naked on the other side of the bed looking as if he might still be asleep.

He throws a pair of pajama pants at Dean’s face and watches Dean stumble into them.

“I thought having a babysitter meant we could sleep in,” he whines.

Cas walks over and kisses him. “It’s only been one day, we’ll work up to that.”

Unlocking the door, Cas opens it a sliver and climbs back into bed. Dean holds up the comforter and climbs underneath, hiding his entire body. At this point, Cas isn’t sure whether he’s doing it on purpose or not.

“Oh, I think they’re up,” Sam says.

The pitter-patter of bare feet on the hardwood echoes down the hall. A creaking pulls a smile from him and he feels Hope climb onto their bed.

And then she starts jumping.

“Wake up!!!”

Dean groans and curls up more under the blankets. Cas laughs. “Get over here little one, come cuddle with us for a bit. We were up late talking to Uncle Sammy and we’re very tired.”

Hope stomps over the bed, stepping on Dean and plunks down onto the pillow beside him. She shuffles down under the covers and huffs.

Around the corner of the door jamb, Sam pokes his head in. “Oh man, how domestic is this?”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean mumbles from somewhere beneath a comforter, a knit blanket, and a heavy cotton sheet.

“Do you want to come in bed too!?” Hope asks, full of innocent delight.

Cas and Dean snort and resound “No’s” at the same time. Chuckling, Sam disappears down the hallway.

Leaning down to Hope’s ear, Cas whispers to his daughter, “What do you say? You want us all to move back with Uncle Sammy?”

Hope nods, eyes sparkling. “Will I have friends?” she asks.

“What? Me and Dad aren’t your friends?”

She laughs sarcastically. “Noooo! You’re my dad and daddy.”

“Okay, well, I’m sure there will be friends for you. Maybe not your age, but definitely friends.” Cas assures.

Hope ends up falling back asleep under the covers in the “fort” with Dean. Cas makes his way into the kitchen to find Sam leaning against the counter staring off into space.

“Trying to wrap your head around it all?”

Sam huffs and nods. “I’m so happy for you guys. You have no idea, man.”

That night, at dinner, it’s Hope that tells Sam that they would love to come live with him. It takes them a day and a half after that to decide what they want to bring, to pack enough from their garden to add to the greenhouse that Sam has mentioned, and to gather enough weapons to maintain Dean’s sanity.

The drive south towards Provo, Utah takes them three days as they stop frequently. Sam takes a roundabout way avoiding the still cluttered highways. Hope has never seen so much of the outside world and they often stop at her will more than anything else.

When she sees the mountains for the first time going through Montana, he and Dean share a laugh watching the look on her face. Sam pulls over and hoists Hope onto his shoulders so she has the best view.

Castiel stands next to the guardrail with his hands on the steel, looking out over the land, thinking about everything that’s changed.

Dean steps in beside him and throws his arm around his shoulders. Cas leans into the support.

“Reminiscing?” Dean suspects.

Cas nods and turns to examine Dean’s familiar profile. “Yes. But I think the best is still ahead of us.”

⊢≬⊣

Dean stares up through the windshield at the high stone walls that had to have taken a long ass time to put up.

“Impressive.”

Sam grins over with pride. “Thanks. It took forever!”

Between the thick grey blocks are a set of heavy-duty cast-iron gates. It’s the last threshold to cross before another chapter of their life begins.

Dean has a moment’s hesitation, knowing he’ll miss the years he spent alone with Cas and Hope in the middle of nowhere. He turns in his seat and sees Cas leaning back with Hope slumped against his chest, sleeping soundly.

Reaching between the seats, Dean snatches her foot and gives it a little shake.

She pushes against Cas’ chest with her tiny hands and blearily looks up. “Daddy?”

“We’re here, sweetheart.” Cas brushes the hair from her face and kisses her forehead.

Dean’s focus is drawn back to the front when Sam rolls down the window and waves up at someone standing on top of the wall.

In front of the Impala, the black high gates make a groaning noise and start to swing open.

Sam hits the gas and takes the car into the compound. At first Dean doesn’t see much. Having stopped as often as they did, it was late by the time they pulled up the road.

The sectioned off part of the neighbourhood is one long row of modest homes and Dean can’t even see how far it goes.

Sam pulls up to a stop in front of one of the first houses; a red-brick 1950’s bungalow. Dean eases out of the car and stretches, taking Hope from Cas’ arms when he gets out so he can take a stretch himself.

“Dean!” A familiar gruff voice shouts across the road and Dean whips around to see Josh jogging across the pavement, smiling wider than Dean’s ever seen.

“Man, it’s good to see you,” Dean says when he’s wrapped up in a hug. Josh pulls back and peers at Hope. She shrinks back away from the man with the thick beard.

“Hope, say hi to Josh. He’s good people.”

She waves but doesn’t say a word.

Before he has time to recover from seeing Josh, someone else is calling his name. And out of nowhere, there’s a flood of faces around him and Cas and hugs are being doled out like candy on Halloween.

At some point, between hugs and kisses and general merriment, Dean starts to cry a little bit. But he’s keeping a pretty tight lid on things.

That is, until his eyes scan the crowd and he sees a flame of red hair coming his way. Dean beelines for her. Hope is crushed between him and Charlie in an intense hug and he lets the floodgates open.

Who the hell cares at this point?

Running up behind Charlie is Lexi, blonde hair cut short to her shoulders. Her toned arm winds up and slaps Charlie on the rear hard enough that she stumbles forward.

Dean’s eyes split wide.

Looking impish, Charlie smiles and winks. Dean stares at Lexi’s bright grin. “So ... you two?”

The blonde shrugs and wraps her arm around Charlie’s waist. “Only a fiery red-head could make me give up d—“ Charlie elbows her girlfriend and points at Hope. Lexi swallows and says, “Woops. My bad, not many kids around here. Anyway, where’s the man you stole from me?”

“Hello,” Cas interrupts, coming up beside Dean. He brushes past and hugs Lexi good and tight, lingering a little longer than Dean would care for. He tries his best not to feel jealous, but a small ounce of the green monster pokes his head.

There’s animated chatting all around him, especially with the two loud women in front of him. Out of the cacophony of voices, a familiar laugh captures his attention.

Turning around in a circle, he tries to find Sam for an explanation. Finally, his eyes land on his brother standing beside Kate. Dean draws his focus and mouths a name at the guy, his eyebrows pulled together. Sam starts to smile and nods past Dean to his far left.

Spinning around again, overloaded with faces, he picks out a familiar dark head of hair. Accompanied by one of the most honest smiles he’s ever seen. Dean squeezes Hope with excitement. “That’s one of Dad’s friends,” he points.

Kevin laughs as he navigates between everybody to get close, eyes darting between Dean and Cas.

“Hey, Dean.”

“Fuck, man, it’s good to see you!” Dean hugs him with one arm. “I thought you were dead, I really did.”

“Dad,” Hope whispers against his neck, “bad word.”

“Sorry, munchkin.” Dean kisses her as an apology. In a few short minutes he finds out that Kevin ducked out of Crowley’s imprisonment when the infection threw everything into chaos. He says Crowley disappeared one day and never came back. No one knows what happened to him.

 

One by own, the crowd dissipates. It’s late and with the extra excitement, people are tired. Dean feels the weight of Hope in his arms and knows she’s getting tired.

In the span of two hours, he’s learned that Kevin is alive, Lexi and Charlie are an item, Kyle and Ray had a kid they named Matty. It’s amazing.

Sadly, it’s not all good news. They lost Sandra a few months back to what they think was cancer.

That loss really upsets him and when he starts to get teary-eyed again, Hope reaches up and nearly pokes him in the eye trying to wipe off his tears.

“Thanks kiddo.” Hope kisses him sloppily on the mouth and pats his cheek.

With everyone else gone but Sam, and them, they start walking down the road. Between the houses, Dean can see the impressive stone wall running along the property and is continuously amazed at what they’ve achieved.

Slowing to a stop, Sam turns and points at a quaint red-brick number just like the one Sam had stopped in front of. But this one has a deck off the front door and a peaked overhang.

Dean can hear Sam explain how the compound works, how they have water and electricity, but he’s reached the information overload for the day and drowns it all out and starts humming to his daughter instead.

Sam places a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. “Hey, Dean, I know it’s your first night and all, and this is all new but … if Hope wants to, Kate and I can totally watch her for the night. And you and Cas can have some time to yourselves.”

Dean laughs. Sam already gets it that it’s not their decision at all, but hers.

Looking down at his daughter, Dean gauges her reaction and asks, “So, what do you say, do you want to have a sleepover at Uncle Sammy’s?”

“You want to have alone time with Daddy?” she asks, her hand reaches out blindly to find Cas. Grinning, the man in question moves in close enough and lets his neck skin be pinched in her little fingers.

“Um, I was just thinking you might want to go have fun at Uncle Sam’s house. I’m sure he’s got games and books and you can run around _all_ night if you want!”

Sam glares at him.

“Okay!” she peels out, no longer tired, blue eyes flared wide at the possibilities.

“Have fun, Sam,” he says. Hoisting Hope up a little higher, he brings them face-to-face. “Kiss.”

Pursing her lips and diving forward, she basically headbutts his face, strangles his neck in a hug and then nearly flings herself out of his arms towards Cas for the same attack of love.

Back on her feet, she reaches up to take Sam’s hand. “We’re on a street, you have to hold my hand,” she informs him very authoritatively.

His brother laughs and gives a little wave back before taking her small fingers in his palm.

Standing beside Cas, they both watch their daughter hop and skip along beside Sam, her crazy frizz-ball hair bouncing around, her bell-like voice drifting back, “Did you know that Dad stabbed Daddy, Uncle Sammy? He stabbed him! And Daddy _still_ loved him!”

Frickin’ kid. Their love story was always her favourite. Granted, she always found it totally hilarious.

Dean wonders if either of them will be total wieners and start crying, having to spend the first night _ever_ away from their adopted kid.

Cas sniffs.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t you dare. Suck it up, we’re better than this. We’ll see her tomorrow.”

“This is an awful feeling. I don’t like seeing her walk away, Dean.”

Turning to drag Cas against his chest, he tries to appease his man. “I know, but hey, we can go up into that house, get naked and fuck each other senseless all night. You can make me scream and no one will hear it. Get what I’m saying?”

Cas sags and moans against him, “Or…”

“ _Or_?” asks Dean.

“Or we could sleep for fourteen hours straight, and then shower, and _then_ have sex.”

Dean laughs and drags Cas up to the house. “We could do that too.”

At the door, Cas turns to him and captures his face, blue eyes intense on him. “I told you it would all work out, Dean.”

What do you know, Cas is right. Dammit … Cas is always right. Ignoring the arrogant smirk on Cas’ face, Dean kisses him.

It’s soft and lingering, the type of kiss that has you forgetting which way is up. As it is, Dean presses Cas against the door for support. Hands running up his neck, fingers sinking into his dark brown hair, Dean turns his head to deepen the kiss.

When he finally eases back, he sees the open adoration in Castiel’s blue gaze.

“You were right,” he admits. “Would you like a prize?”

Reaching over for the door handle, Cas grins and licks his lips. “Yes.”

“And what’s that?”

Chuckling, Cas replies, “A damn foot massage.”

 

Dean always thought, had always expected, he’d go down fighting. But he's happy to be surprised by the alternative. Growing old with Cas and watching their daughter become an incredible woman in the uncertain remains of an old life is not something he ever could have imagined.


	40. Chapter 40

# Letters to Sam

_Dear Sam,_

_I think it’s Christmas. So … Merry Christmas._

_I sang to Cas and made Hope a Lego set from wood. It’s not the greatest, but it’s alright._

_Cas gave me something that made me very VERY happy. I won’t scar you by saying what it was. Suffice to say it ended in an orgasm._

_Wish you could see this house. It’s pretty wicked. Like a smartphone… but a house. It’s probably the only time I’ve been appreciative of technology._

_I miss you._

_Love,_

_Dean_

 

* * *

 

_Dear Sam,_

_Hope took her first steps today. Wish you would’ve seen it. Cas tried to draw a picture but it sucks so I won’t show you._

_Yeah … he_ definitely _sucks._

_Get it? Ha! I can’t brag to anyone else, so prepare to be grossed out. Cas sucks sooooo good. Holy crap. And he’s bendy. Just sayin’._

_Anyway, things are good here. It’s the middle of winter so we don’t have much of a garden of course, but I still hunt and fish. I’m nowhere near as good as Josh, but what can you do._

_I did make a wicked bow though. Took some getting used to._

_I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re happy._

_-Dean_

 

* * *

 

_Dear Sam,_

_This is Castiel. I hope you and Kate are doing well. I have stolen Dean’s journal to write you a message for myself. It’s been many months now. Our daughter is talking. She never seems to stop—though half of it doesn’t make any sense save for a word here and there._

_I have made repeated attempts to curb Dean’s swearing, but haven’t had much luck on that front._

_The other day she cut her finger and the first thing she said was “fuck”. She is a year and a half old. I was not very happy with your brother._

_I’ve had a recurring dream about you visiting us. I told Dean about it but it upsets him to speak hopefully about you._

_Take care Sam._

 

* * *

 

_Sammy,_

_I see Cas has been rooting through my stuff. And by the way, Hope did not say fuck, she said duck. Anyway, no idea what all this is about him acting all tough parent and everything, he’s the biggest pushover ever Sam, you should see it._

_I’m totally gonna be the one telling her no for things as she gets older. Cas is useless. She cries over any little thing and he rushes to pick her up and coddle her. I mean, don’t me wrong, it’s fucking adorable as shit._

_I hope we do right by her. I know I raised you and you turned out great (not to brag or anything) but raising her in this world is hard. It’s harder than I imagined._

_Some days when I come back from hunting empty-handed and all we have is canned stuff to feed her I feel like a failure. At least before I could steal stuff for you if I had to, or worse. But regardless, I made it work. It’s not as easy now._

_Love ya, kid._

 

* * *

 

_Sam,_

_A lot of time has passed but there are things I know for sure. One, is that I will love your brother forever, and two, Hope is the most important thing in this world._

_But I also know that we will see you again. In fact, I think there are a lot of things that I’ve seen coming over the years since I became human. I can’t say why it happened or if there’s a greater purpose._

_Nevertheless, I look forward to greeting you once again. You are a good friend, and most of all, you are family._

_Love,_

_Castiel_

 

* * *

 

_Well, it’s been a year or so._

_I don’t know what to say. Hope is getting big. I mean she’s still itty-bitty, but she’s a toddler now. She stumbles around the house at full speed. Falls a lot though._

_She’s pretty set on calling me dad and Cas daddy. It’s friggin’ cute man. When she gets whiny or overtired though, it’s DADDY! Screaming at the top of her lungs. At this point, usually either of us will suffice so long as we give her whatever the heck she wants._

_I remember when you were this age. We kept getting stuck with crappy babysitters. You used to cuddle up and nap against me when you were this little. Then again, I wasn’t much bigger. Hope likes to climb into bed with Cas and I in the mornings and cuddle with us. I feel guilty, but those mornings… happiest I think I’ve ever been._

_And then I remember all that I’ve lost and it kinda sucks a bit all over again._

_Dammit Sam. You better fucking be alive._

_-Dean_

 

* * *

 

_Hope drew you a picture. Cas and I gave her instructions. By the end, we were laughing so hard our sides hurt._

_ _

_Miss ya._

_Love Dean_

 

* * *

 

_Hello Sam,_

_I think I understand why Dean writes to you here. It is cathartic. Also, I am certain that one day you will see these. The dream I had before persists._

_Today was a fun day. Our garden has been doing better and we gorged ourselves on delicious salad that I think you would’ve enjoyed. Dean caught these small white fish this morning and we had those with it. He’s actually a very skilled fisherman._

_I’m better with the bow, not that he’s willing to admit it._

_Dean and I have gotten into the habit of telling Hope stories of the past, phrased like bedtime fairytales. Her favourites are: How Dean and I met, Sam the Hero (how you overcame Lucifer), and the time you were turned into the Impala by Gabriel._

_Dean and I were not together very long before everything happened. I thought you should know that I love him very much (even though he can be a pain in the ass sometimes)._

_-Castiel_

 

* * *

 

_Sam:_

_I am not a pain in the ass and I am better with the bow. Cas is…. Ugh. I’m getting stared down right now so hard._

_Fine—Cas is right! I am wrong._

_We’re having stuffed peppers for dinner. Fancy shit, am I right? Stuffed with what you ask? I have not one damn clue. Cas told me several times but I don’t understand (legumes or something?). As long as it’s edible I don’t really care._

_Screaming child—BRB_

_DEAN_

 

* * *

 

_Cas and I had a fight. It was dumb, but he’s being stubborn. I guess so am I. I don’t know._

_Miss ya._

 

* * *

 

_Sorry, been a while since I’ve written in here. Always the way isn’t it? Anyway, its spring. Hope is a little terror. Cas and I are… great. Really great. I’m happy, man. And every time I acknowledge it, I feel so damn guilty. I’ve lost so much, I shouldn’t be able to be this happy. The kid’s making me soft, all I want to do some days is cuddle with these two. Isn’t that ridiculous?_

_Dean Winchester winds up settling down with his former guardian angel, an adopted daughter, and all after a frigging apocalypse._

_Who the hell would have guessed that?_

 

* * *

 

_Dean is a stupendous lover._

_^ What he said._

 

* * *

 

_I am transcribing for Hope…_

_“Dear Uncle Sammy, it’s really pretty outside today and I think you would like it. You should come for a visit. Daddy says your hair is longer than me!” She means mine, FYI._

 

* * *

 

_It’s been three years._

_I don’t know what to say. I miss you a lot sometimes. There’s always a lot to keep me busy and I am happy. I am. But I wish I knew what happened to everyone, to you. I wish I could’ve been there to see things through._

_Life is continuing somehow. It amazes me. Food comes back every year. Cas and I are practically married, or something like that. It’s nice to know that someone’s in your corner no matter what. I mean, I had that with you too, I guess… but it’s different. I never understood before. Not really. I can be weak around him, I never felt I could be like that with you. Maybe because I was your big brother._

_I have no other adults to talk to, and I never thought I’d really need that but I often get this urge to tell someone how great Cas is, how good he is to me, even when I’m an ass. I want to brag, I guess. Kinda funny, huh?_

_Hope is a freaking ray of sunshine. She keeps us on our toes, she always manages to get us smiling or laughing on the days when we’re tired and wanting a break._

_It’s funny, with Cas having been so worried about her picking up bad traits from me, it’s hilarious when she chastises me for swearing. And she rolls her eyes the same way Cas does. I love it._

_Look, I don’t know when I’ll write again. It helps when I’m in a mood, but it also makes me feel like there’s a cloud hanging over my head for a few days. Anyway. I love ya, kid. I hope to see you again one day… and if not… I hope you’re happy somewhere. I hope you know that I am too._

_Love Dean + Castiel + Hope._

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was tweaking until the very end and if there are any last minute errors, please message me on tumblr:  
> [Tumblr Ask Box](http://fandomsfanfictionsfangirlingohmy.tumblr.com/ask)
> 
> Also... Fic recs, comments, kudos are the best way to show love XD lol.


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